


don't be afraid to say the words that move me

by queenofthecon



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Mutual Pining, Phone Sex, Secret Relationship, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 09:24:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22426888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthecon/pseuds/queenofthecon
Summary: Brad doesn't know which Claire he's going to get. Maybe that's what he loves really - the fun, the excitement of something new each time. How it happens doesn't matter: Brad just loves the sound of her voice.
Relationships: Brad Leone & Claire Saffitz, Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz
Comments: 53
Kudos: 111





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been on vacation for a couple weeks but I missed these two idiots and you guys have been through the drought with me, so what can we do but write angsty, smutty fanfic about people we adore together?
> 
> Please remember this is fiction and should be treated as such - do not share, repost or show to anyone depicted therein. None of this is real, believe me, I'd dig it out if it was.

It’s kind of a fucked up thing to be doing, if Brad’s being totally honest with himself.

New York feels like a hundred billion miles away when he’s stuck in Duxbury, Massachusetts, and his skin is sticky and hot, and he’s really wishing he hadn’t agreed to film this road trip of fucking videos right now. He’d never travelled much in his entire fricking life before Bon Appetit, before the videos and the weird things they’re making him do. Something about it feels off, feels… like it’s wrong. A New Jersey boy like him should not be missing New York, but he is, goddamn it. He misses the noise and the lights and the yelling, he misses redirecting lost people and avoiding shitty hot dog carts and it’s only a week into this road trip. There’s not much to keep his hands busy either, which is generally a bad thing when it comes to Brad.

None of this makes any sense: not the job he’s got, not the place he’s in or how he got to sitting in bed wide awake in a fucking heatwave in the ass-end of Massachusetts with barely any airflow. How he got here, four hours from home with an actual schedule to stick to, he can’t make sense of it.

And there’s just one thing Brad does when things don’t make sense: he calls Claire.

(Probably should have occurred to him that it’s like two in the morning and she’s only half-awake when she answers her phone)

“_Brad_?” Claire answers blearily on the other end of the line. He can just see her in his head, like how she wakes up from naps at her desk: streaked hair a tangled mess, her eyes watery and soft. “_If this is about Boston again…_”

“You went to Harvard, Claire, like you like to remind me a billion times,” Brad chuckles softly, sitting up in bed. “Who else ‘m I gonna ask about fucking Boston?”

“_I don’t know, try Google_,” she groans, and he can’t help but smile. “_Guess I’m awake now_.”

He sits up in bed, at a loss for what he actually needs to say. He talks a lot of bullshit sometimes, but Claire’s one of the few who can see past it, call him out for what’s really been bugging at him. “Sorry for wakin’ you up,” Brad picks idly at the bedsheets. “Not a lot to fucking do in Duxbury as it turns out.”

Claire sighs softly in his ear and he hears rustling of fabric too. “_Wouldn’t be at 2.15am…_” he hears the smile in her voice. “_Wanna tell me what’s got you up?_”

She always knows, he thinks, knows when he’s trying to say shit he can’t get past. “I don’t fricking know. Guess I just miss you guys.”

There’s a moment of silence when he thinks about just saying goodnight, saying that he’s sorry, that he should try and just sleep instead of keeping her up like he is, like a moron. But her voice is different, somehow, sleepier, softer, and he wants to keep hearing it. She’s the smartest person he knows, after all.

“_Yeah?_” Claire mumbles and sighs. “_We miss you too. It’s weird how my summer fruits haven’t gone walking on their own in like a week_.”

“I told ya, that was Andy,” he grins lazily, shifting as he feels the tension and loneliness seep out of his voice. “I caught him with my own two eyes, stealin’ all your Harry’s Berries straight from the walk-in. I’ll write him up when I get back, you and me gotta stick together on this one.”

“_Oh sure, sure, you write up Andy, we’ll see how that pans out,_” she giggles a little and he ignores how his skin prickles at the sound. “_Since when were you ever the boss type_, _Leone?_”

Brad’s heard that one before, whenever he’s gotta bring out the Manager hat and get his shit together – Claire always ends up saluting him when he has to actually act like her supervisor, once in a blue fucking moon when the stars align. “Hey, don’t sass me, Half-Sour, I am your boss, remember?”

“_God, that nickname’s gonna stick, isn’t it?_” Claire groans deep in her throat and his grin turns broad and teasing, imagining her rolling her big brown eyes at him. “_Half-Sour Saffitz. You couldn’t come up with something cooler than making me sound like a cherry pie? I never got a cool nickname._”

He snorts to stop from laughing and waking up the entire floor of people in his hotel. “Technically you fucking came up with that one, Half-Sour. All on you, babe.”

Claire laughs over the line and it makes him miss her all the more. “_Yeah, yeah, yeah, boss. You’re right as always. But you still haven’t really said why you’re calling me at 2am._”

Trust her to get through the bullshit. There’s more silence as he tries to not talk before his brain can catch up to what he’s feeling. Brad’s got no idea why he really called Claire. She’s just… Claire. Whatever weird rapport they got, the chemistry or whatever buzzword Duckor’s been using, it spills. They flow everywhere and he just needs to hear from her lips that he’s gonna be alright because then he’ll believe it. Claire’s always fucking right about this stuff.

“I don’t know what I’m even doing on the fucking internet in the first place, Claire,” he mutters eventually. “Making shit in the kitchen’s one thing. Now they got me doing road trips for three weeks, filming day after day, back to back shoots. What if I fuck it all up? Jesus Christ, tell me I’m being a dumbass, please.”

“_You’re being a dumbass_,” Claire repeats lazily. “_That’s what you’re worried about? You’re not gonna fuck anything up, Brad, I promise. Vinny’s got your back, and Hunzi’s the best editor BA’s got. People love you, remember? You’re not gonna fuck it up when they like you._”

Oh, yeah, he’s read the comments, alright: they all think he’s a golden retriever. “They do, huh? Like how?”

“_Now you’re just fishing for compliments,_” Claire snarks and he has to stifle a laugh. “_Fine. You’re funny and… like…. animated, and you care, Brad. You care so much that you’re calling me this time of night, worried about it. You’re the most passionate person I’ve ever met, and handsome, too, all those girls in the comments… gonna be beating them off with sticks._”

Brad’s made so many rash choices in his life. He’s changed career at the drop of a hat for a hundred reasons, he’s said yes where others said no, fallen headlong into trouble and pain, and found happiness and meaning on the other side. The fact that she sees him, though, really sees him? It means the world.

“Jesus, Claire. You’re just… perfect…” he says without thinking, his lips and tongue forming the words before he has any sense to stop them. He promised her a long fucking time ago that he’d never let himself get carried away, but the spill is so hard to contain. “I…”

“_Brad?_” Claire replies in that same breathy, deep voice that makes his skin tingle. “_I can’t-_”

Because that’s the thing. Claire _can’t_ for whatever reason: too much, too heavy, too intense, he’s her boss on paper. But he doesn’t care now, he just wants to hear that breathy voice again, those soft sighs and hear her smile. It’s _something_, at least.

“Claire… God…” Brad stutters, a little high from lack of sleep. He rubs his eyes and pinches at the bridge of his nose as if that’ll stop him from wanting her. “It’s okay. Shit. Sorry. It’s just…” His heart’s thudding dangerously hard in his chest as she doesn’t say a word but doesn’t hang up on him either and maybe that’s something. “Remember the holiday party 2015?”

There’s a pause and he knows she remembers it all. “_Brad, we… we were totally wasted on Ouzo,_” Claire whispers like it’s some big secret. Neither of them had ever talked about that night since it happened, just let themselves simmer gently. “_We kissed. That was it._”

“Yeah, I know,” he admits, though it’s a lie. He remembers how her lips were swollen and how he’d had to drag himself away from her when she pushed him away. They’d blame the alcohol and he’d refused to acknowledge he’d ever even thought about kissing Claire Saffitz. “Look, maybe, I… maybe I didn’t fucking want it to stop. Did you, really? All office politics and bullshit rules, forget em. Did you wanna stop?”

He waits. And waits.

“_No…_” she mutters as quietly as he’s ever heard her.

Fear and desire battle inside him because he can’t push her again. Brad’s known for poking her to get a rise, but this is different. It’s dangerous and on the edge between versions of themselves.

Except she’s not telling him to fuck off, and God, he fucking _misses_ her. Misses her pouting and whining, misses her giggles and the jokes she makes (like that pie joke he still doesn’t understand). It’s as if there’s two versions of Claire in his head. One Claire is his friend, the one who laughs and snorts at his stories and weird pronunciations of easy words, and the other is the Claire in that dark green dress, the one that made her skin look pink and pale in the dark of the 32nd floor conference room. He just has no idea which Claire he’s talking to now.

“I know why we can’t.” Brad mutters, running a rough palm down his face to his chest. “Doesn’t mean the urge goes away, right?”

“_That what this is? You got an urge?_” she asks in response.

Brad’s hand itches on his bare stomach, imagining Claire lying in bed in the dark, sheets twined around her legs. “Maybe. Maybe I just want an excuse to talk to you.”

She sighs softly, but it’s different to his ears. Needy and dreamy and all he remembers of the 32nd floor, that other Claire she’d been with half a bottle of Ouzo inside her. He wishes he could see her face. “_So, talk. Tell me what you’re thinking about._”

“You mean honestly?” his voice catches and his imagination goes wild. “I’m thinking about you, talking to me. Just wanted to hear the sound of your voice, I think.”

“_You’ve heard it._ _What now?_”

It’s kind of a fucked up thing to do to himself. He knows there no way this ends well, for either of them. The universe isn’t that forgiving of his sins.

“I just want to _hear_ you, Claire,” Brad admits before he can stop himself, the need spilling out of him into the inky darkness of his lonely hotel room. “God, I shouldn’t-”

“_Stop talking_,” Claire interrupts. “_Brad, just… just tell me what you want… what you want to do._”

He has to stop himself from immediately groaning at the sound of her voice, eyes screwing shut at the image of her in bed, wanting and frustrated as they’d been when they were dumb and drunk, making out like they couldn’t be pulled apart.

“I just keep thinking about you like you were that night, like you couldn’t give a shit about the rules. Want to hear you say my name like that again,” he admits softly, scared of pushing her too far. “God, I just want… I wanna know so much about you, babe. What you taste like, what you look like. Wanna know it all.”

“_Brad… please…”_ she sounds so small and whiny, and he hears her moving, so far away still that it’s driving him insane. “_Help me. You’re the one who woke me up, made me think about all this, after all this time. Please, help me. Just this once, I promise. Help me._”

Whether it’s a plea for him or just to herself, he doesn’t know but Brad is sick of wanting, of missing her, of not knowing the answers to all the shit in his head he’s wondered about Claire Saffitz. All the dreams about her freckled skin and how soft her tits are, what she tastes like on his tongue. He’s greedy that way.

It’s a thread they can’t un-snip. But he has to hear it. He has to _know_ her.

In the end, he makes his choice, licks his dry lips and takes the chance. “You wet for me, Claire?”

\---

Two weeks later, Brad strolls back into the Test Kitchen with paler skin and a hundred stories.

They don’t talk about what this is.

\---

It’s not right to be calling him while he’s gone, not again, not when he’s in Alaska and she’s three episodes deep into Real Housewives (she’d never hear the end of it if he knew she watches fake reality television to unwind). Her thumb circles his name in her contacts list idly because she’s just a little chicken to do it without liquid courage. It’s just past midnight in New York, so it’s like 8pm in Alaska – he could be at dinner, at a bar, maybe, just going for drinks with Vinny and his guys, buying a couple rounds of beers, waxing poetic about crab and how he loves the ocean. That’d be Brad, in her head, just one of those people who makes friends wherever he goes – she’s nothing special.

Claire shouldn’t call him. She just _shouldn’t_. It doesn’t matter that she’s lonely, bored, that she keeps thinking about how ragged and broken he’d sounded last time, that it reminded her of what she really wanted.

He hasn’t called her since that first time, and it’s like there’s a tiny idea of him left inside her brain that won’t go away, that just gets more and more noticeable the more Claire tries to ignore it. Brad probably doesn’t want her to call and she doesn’t want to be the one responsible for screwing up their friendship.

Everything’s changing so fast.

She calls him anyway.

“_Hi_, _hey_,_ wow,_ _it’s you,_” Brad answers almost immediately and she’s right: there’s loud music in the background that fades away quickly. “_I didn’t think you’d-_”

“Neither did I,” she interrupts, sitting cross-legged on her couch. The music behind his voice makes her want to be there with him, hearing his stories getting wilder and wilder. “Is this okay?”

“_You kidding me, yeah it’s fucking okay_,” he laughs, and she knows he’s probably a few drinks into the night as well. “_What’s the time there?_”

She looks at her phone for a second before bringing it back to her ear. “Like 12.35. I wasn’t gonna call.”

“_Been a while, huh?_” Brad asks and the music’s barely there now. She doesn’t know what else to say other than that she _needs_ him again, but Brad’s too impatient for her, it seems. “_Talk to me, Saffitz. Don’t like it when you clam up on me._”

But there’s a million things Claire _wants_ to say; about how Chris and Molly got into it over pineapple pizza, about how Gaby’s been covering for him every day he’s been gone, about how it’s too quiet without him there. Claire chooses something safe.

“Duckor and Knowlton gave the go-ahead for the next video. The one where I make junk food, but better. Hopefully better, I don’t know if I actually can.”

Brad whoops loudly in her ear and her sudden smile splits her face. “_Alright Claire, fuckin’ getting some recognition finally. Bout goddamn time, huh?_” he chuckles. “_When you shootin’?_”

Claire fiddles with the string of her sweatpants. “Couple more weeks, they gotta get the go-ahead from some companies. Next one’s Gushers, I think. It’s some dumb candy, I don’t even know what it is, to be honest.”

“_Couple weeks. So, I get to be there_?” his voice drops an octave, she swears, gets incredibly silky and deep. “_Get to watch you be all charming and shit._”

It’s like igniting an instant flame and she slips back into the woman who made out with her boss in a dark room when she was lonely, when the attraction got too much to bear. “Yeah, yeah, you like watching me. Don’t think I don’t feel your eyes on me from across the room, Leone. You’re not as smooth as you think.”

He swears deeply down the phone as if she wasn’t meant to hear it and Claire grins, her cheeks going red. “_You feel it, yeah you do. Christ, Claire, I’m in a fucking club in Anchorage, you couldn’t wait a couple hours?_”

“Nope,” she tells him honestly, her voice whiny. “I really can’t wait, Brad. It’s late and I-”

“_You wanna get off again, don’t ya? That’s why you really called._” Brad breathes deeply over the phone. She doesn’t know where he is, and maybe that’s part of the thrill of it. He’s in public, he has to be quiet, and she gets to be loud and free, to wind him around her finger until he cracks. “_You’re killing me, Saffitz, but you know that._”

“Like you haven’t thought about last time too,” she mutters, laying back into her old, comfortable couch, unfolding her legs and letting go of the tension in her shoulders. “God, I’ve never done anything like this, it’s you, it’s all your fault.”

“_My fault? Please, it’s not me coming to work in those skin-tight jeans, looking like she’s starving for some attention._” Claire smirks and flattens her small hand on her stomach, imagining his hot gaze on her ass from across the room. “_I see you, Claire. All the damn time, see so much._”

“Tell me,” she mutters as if there’s a conspiracy. “Please, Brad.”

There’s more silence for a moment and the click of a door closing but Claire doesn’t dare break whatever this is by talking. Their thing is so delicate, still.

“_You wanna know, do you? How much I think about just taking you apart?”_ Her skin tingles as he practically groans the words in her ear, her eyes sliding shut to lose herself in his voice. “_Babe, I wanna sink my teeth into your neck half the fucking day just to get a taste of you._”

“Wish you would,” Claire mutters, running her fingers over her stomach. “It’s not the same without you in the kitchen.”

Brad laughs in her ear, but it sounds different, like he’s a different man entirely. “_Nobody fucking fawning over you in my absence?_”

“Not a single one…” Claire sighs dramatically, rucking her shirt up to trail her fingers across her bare abdomen.

“_Morons_,” he replies. “_I miss watching your lips. Think about them wrapped around my cock…_” she bites her cheek to stop her groan, wanting him to earn it. “_Maybe get you bent over the table on the 32nd floor where we were headin’, shove my face between your thighs before I fuck you…”_

Claire whimpers involuntarily, need and desire shooting through her. It’s wrong, but that’s what makes it right, too. He’s not her boss now, just a man she wants, who wants her. “Oh God… you so would.”

“_Yeah, there you go. That what you want, babe? Want it rough?” _he sounds as wrecked as she feels, but she holds off on relieving the pressure building between her thighs._ “Touch yourself, Claire, make your tits all nice and pink for me. Bet you’re so fuckin’ beautiful like that._”

Her slim hand gropes under her old, worn t-shirt for her breast and grabs roughly, imagining how he’d do the same. Brad would feel rougher, she thinks, calloused and desperate, trying hard to tease and failing because he _wants_ her.

“Fuck, Brad…” she groans, pinching at her nipple the way she imagines he would, unrelenting until the skin tightens. “Please, please...”

“_I love it when you beg me, Saffitz,_” Brad growls in her ear. “_You wet already? How much you been thinking about this?_”

She can feel just how soaked she is already, because he’s spot on – she’s had thought after thought about calling him, asking for just one more time because he somehow got her off with just a growl and an order. Claire knows it won’t be the last of this adventure – she craves him, needs him more than she should to get off. How he can hold so much of her on an edge is insane.

“Yes, so much. I love this so much.” Her head hits the back of the couch as she rocks her hips to get some relief. “Just need you to get me off, please, fuck… _Brad._”

He’s breathing heavily on the phone, groaning along with her. “_Good girl, using your words. You’re gonna be good for me, ain’t ya, Claire?_”

“Yes, yes…” she says, impatient as the pressure grows harder between her thighs. Her breasts are pink and sore, her lip swollen from where she’s bitten down in anticipation. “Tell me what to do.”

“_Angel, fucking angel, you are…_” he swallows in her ear audibly. “_Bet you’d look so pretty riding me. Touch your cunt for me, Claire. Tell me how wet you are._”

There’s no hesitation and she almost sobs in relief as her slim fingers slide under her sweatpants and past her underwear, her fingertips dragging wetness up to her clit, teasing with her fingertips like he would. “Soaked. Jesus.”

“_Ride your hand for me, babe._” Brad sounds ragged and out of breath and she can just imagine him with a hand down his pants, trying to be quiet in a bathroom somewhere, aching for her as much as she is for him. “_Wanna hear you come._”

Two of her fingers slide inside and Claire moans, the heel of her hand pressing down on her clit. It doesn’t feel like him – Brad’s hands are huge, fingers thick and longer than hers, and – fuck – he’d split her open given half the chance. It’s not enough but she has his voice in her ear, panting and swearing along with her.

“Want you inside me so bad,” Claire whispers without thinking, her hips moving in time with her slim fingers. Her leg shakes with the effort of not coming too quick, wanting this to last. “You’re so big.”

“_You know it,_” he groans in her ear and she fucks herself on her own hand when he swears again. “_I’d fuckin’ wreck a tiny thing like you, Claire. I ever get to fuck you, you’d be happy to walk straight the next morning. Keep going, babe, wanna hear it._”

Gratefully, Claire obliges. She thinks about fucking him on his desk chair, how he’d grab at her ass and whisper filth in her ear because he knows that does it for her. Brad would know just how rough she’d want him, when to be slow. He _knows_ her, better than anyone.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck me_, Brad.”

“_Come on, babe, harder, faster, come for me,_” he growls, and it shoots down her spine like electric, like lightning. “_You want it, take it._”

Her fingers curl and she comes hard and fast on her own hand, her eyes screwed shut to the reality around her. Claire gasps his name in desperation for the need of him, her skin sticky and hot, wetness soaking her fingers. Her heart hammers in her chest as she draws every part of her orgasm out of herself, legs shaking until it hurts to touch.

“Shit…” she pants into the phone after a moment, flushed and exhausted. “I… thank you,” Claire says, for want of anything else. “How… how’d you do this to me?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just hears his broken voice and rough breaths. “_You give me half an hour and I’ll do it even better._”

Somehow, she doesn’t doubt him.

\---

It happens too much to be normal. A couple times a month, at least. It gets better and better, more intense and real, like they’re teaching each other. She works up enough courage to send him a photo and he rewards her with praise and desire in equal measure.

Brad paints idea after idea in her head until they consume her thoughts when she’s at home alone. They’re containing the spill by letting it drip out safely, she thinks.

It’s only a matter of time before it gets out of hand.

And that scares the shit out of her.

\---

Claire quits BA a few months later, out of fucking nowhere, without so much as a goddamn _word_ about it to him. Brad’s too angry to be _angry_ at her at work. He just can’t deal with her because he knows he’s gonna break and break hard and it’ll fucking ruin everything. It’s not that she’s leaving – it’s not – it’s why. Because he doesn’t know why, she’s never said a word about it. He never had her down as a quitter, though, and that’s what hurts worst of all. Maybe Claire’s not his Claire anymore.

He calls her six times that night.

She answers on the sixth.

“_Brad, just don’t-_”

“Don’t what, Claire?” he answers snippily, leaning over his own kitchen countertop as if she’s across from him again. “Don’t be pissed at you for quitting on me? Or don’t be pissed because I had to hear it from fucking _Delany._”

She huffs down the phone at him. “_What d’you want me to say, that I’m gonna throw my book deal away because you want me to stay? I didn’t tell you because I knew I’d let you talk me out of it._”

Fuck, he’s mad that she’d even _think_ that, mostly because it’s true. “Jesus Christ, Claire, I’m not gonna talk you out of anything. You used to tell me shit, you know, what fucking changed?”

Claire sighs at him and Brad doesn’t know what to do with his own anger; he has nowhere to put it, not really. They’re not together, they’re not apart either, so he’s got no real right to be angry. It doesn’t stop his foot from bouncing on the ground, the energy untamed.

“_I’m just… I’m tired, Brad. It’s too much, all of it. The videos, the magazine work, and the book I’ve not even started on. I can’t do it all._”

“So, you’re just not gonna do any of it instead?” he grumbles, running a rough palm over his hair. “We both know what’s gonna happen, Claire. You quit, we stop seeing each other every day, we stop hanging out, makin’ excuses, stop texting, until you just kinda forget about us because that’s how you are with people. We’re not gonna see each other again.”

_"Who even said that?!”_ Claire exclaims, though he can hear her own doubt too. “_We’re always gonna be there, okay, you’re my friend. I’ll be there, Brad. Please don’t act like you’re nothing to me._”

But Brad doesn’t know what to say to make this better. His own feelings are entangled with the idea of _Claire Saffitz_ in his head, and she’s the one constant through all the versions of her he knows. “Yeah. Friends, sure,” he mutters softer, reigning himself in. “Friends.”

“_Brad, I can’t… this is complicated enough. My head hurts just thinking about what I gotta do tomorrow,_” and she sounds so tired, so broken and small that it hurts him too. How could he have missed this growing inside her? “_Please don’t hate me._”

“Lucky for you, that’s the one thing I can’t do, Half-Sour,” he says softer still, his anger and hurt turning to a loss he can’t do anything about. “I can’t hate ya. Can’t even think about it. Like you’re a fucking virus in my head, babe.” She doesn’t say anything, and it _kills_ him. “Call me. Please.”

“_Promise._” Claire ends the call as her voice breaks suddenly.

He knows she won’t, not tonight, not tomorrow. His phone ends up cracked on the kitchen floor where he throws it.

\---

Carla’s the one who hands out the _Half-Sour Saffitz_ shirts the day before Claire’s last official day. Her nickname plastered everywhere is the last thing he wants, to be reminded of what’s gonna happen sooner or later. Brad doesn’t want the last part of her he gets to be some cheap t-shirt in the lost and found, have them floating everywhere, mocking him and how much of an idiot he is.

_Half-Sour Saffitz._ It should have been just their thing, and instead it’s another joke.

He just _can’t_ look at those shirts anymore. He can’t spend a whole day waiting for her to say goodbye.

Delany takes him to bar after bar instead (because the kid feels it, too). Brad doesn’t look at his cracked phone screen all day.

\---

Too quickly, Monday comes back and her absence is sharp from the moment he steps inside the Test Kitchen. There’s no rolling pins banging on butter or dough, no giggles or cursing, and it’s like the air’s gone from his lungs too. Chris looks at him now and again all day, like he’s not able to quite smile for long enough, even Gaby’s quieter than usual, dropping things just to cut through the noise of Claire being gone. Or maybe it’s all in his own fucking head, because he’s gotten too used to leaning on Claire, depending on her. Brad doesn’t see a single shirt bearing her nickname, at least.

(Nothing gets done all day. He fiddles around, tries to joke and smile, to forget. It almost works).

He doesn’t remember what he’s doing when he spots a piece of green kitchen tape stuck to the computer station, because suddenly nothing else that’s ever happened to him matters. That _thing_ wasn’t there last week, he’s sure, he’d have remembered spotting it because there’s a message on it for him, just three words that give the game away. She knew he’d actually see it; she’d stuck it literally under his nose.

‘_BRAD. CALL ME!'_♥'

It’s a fucked up thing to do, to dangle one drop of herself out there for him to capture.

He wants it too much.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cape Cod changes everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little thank you for sticking with me on this. I thought I could do it in two chapters but it's turned into three so I apologise if you were seeking closure with this when I've instead just strung it out longer. Bare with me, it'll only be one more after this.
> 
> Big thanks to El for her constant help in picking apart the language and motivations - couldn't do this without you, darling.
> 
> Please remember the rules of RPF kids.

Green masking tape doesn’t change the fact that Claire left, it doesn’t change that he can’t imagine this place without her. His blunt fingers pick at the edges of the tape as it sits there, making fun of him until he covers it with a keyboard and hope nobody notices it’s there, hopes that they don’t ask questions. He hasn’t had a reasonable answer in months, it’s not like there are any when it comes to _them_.

A torn-off piece of green masking tape doesn’t change the fact that Claire’s not here, and it hurts a lot more than he thought it ever would. They’re friends, but not _just_ friends, and he doesn’t fucking know (doesn’t want to know) what that means in the long term since he’s never been great about long term shit, anyway: even his relationships don’t escape his ADD.

He does kinda want to make her suffer as much as he is though: just a tiny bit, just enough. So, maybe Brad takes a little longer than he should to call Claire back.

“_I wanted you to be the first to know,_” she says when she answers her phone (he waited three days before giving in and calling: it’s _something_). “_Rapo made me an offer._”

Brad’s waited three whole days to find out that Claire had barely lasted one.

\---

Things change again, for good and bad, because it’s inevitable that they do.

Brad can’t walk past a package of Sno Ball cakes in the grocery store without smiling anymore.

\---

For the past few months, nearly every idea Claire’s had for this motherfucking cookbook just hasn’t worked, and there’s nobody to blame except herself. Recipe after recipe had been put on the back burner in favour of new ideas that pop into her head at random times before they get set aside too. Not a word has been written in concrete, and she’s got no idea _why_. Out of all the notebooks open in front of her, from all the research and mind maps imaginable (with colour coded highlighting), not a single scrap of it makes any narrative sense. Just a jumble of ideas, of recipes and anecdotes that don’t make a cookbook in any shape or form.

Mostly, it’s just fucking annoying.

Logically, Claire knows she can’t do everything, that it’s impossible to keep multiple different strains of her career going perfectly in this harmony where she’s the orchestra and the conductor. Things change. Some fail, some succeed, some don’t even get off the ground.

But Brad’s _there_, one constant seeing her through all of it. When she doesn’t know how far to push the butter content in a brioche, or how to make spherical wafers, he’s always on her side. Things can change, but Brad just… doesn’t. He’s there when she calls, and he’s there when she doesn’t.

Brad’s the _best._

(It’s okay, she thinks, that they don’t know what they are. Maybe they’re just a pile of notes, too)

“Yeah, I’m not sure you meant ‘long marriage’ as a good thing, _Bradley_…” Claire mutters into her phone with a wry smile, sorting her research as they talk. There’s pages and pages, endless reams of handwritten notes, post-its and photos spread in front of her, a muddle and a mess that makes no sense, that leads to nowhere. “Wait, is your first name actually short for Bradley? I never thought about it.”

“_Bradley Leone. Sounds fuckin’ weird to me,_” he replies, chuckling into her ear. “_I don’t know, is this a game like… what’s that dude… from the kid’s book thing… where he makes them guess his name for gold or some shit?_”

It takes her a second to catch on to what he’s trying to say and has to grin. “Wait, Rumplestiltskin?” Claire leans back from her dining table, the giggles beginning in the back of her throat, bubbling up rapidly. “You trying to say Rumplestiltskin?”

“_Yeah! Rumblestilskin!_” he proclaims in victory, and she snorts down the phone, tilting back in her chair as belly laughter consumes her. “_Hey! Don’t you laugh at me, Miss Harvard Grad._”

“Oh my God,” Claire breathes, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Now I’m imagining you wearing like a Keebler Elf costume or something.”

“_That a kinky thing? You find the Keebler Elf sexy?_” he asks, sounding flabbergasted but chuckling along with her, regardless. “_Hey, whatever gets your motor runnin’, Half-Sour, I’m game._”

Claire’s laughter echoes in her empty apartment and fills it until she’s unable to think of anything but Brad with pointed ears and fishnet stockings. It’s like it always is with him; Brad takes her jumbled mess of a mind and untangles the knots so she can thread herself back onto the spool.

“I bet you’d be game, too.” She snorts in disbelief, running her fingers through her messy hair. “Guys like you can pull off anything and make it sexy.”

“_Guys like me?_”

“You know, tall, charming, confident,” Claire sighs almost dreamily, imagining all the times he’s ever grinned at her and how each smile made her stomach turn and tumble off a cliff. “You can pull off anything – you can pull off wicker shoes and you can pull off those stupid backwards baseball caps…” She smirks slyly. “… and my bra.”

“_I don’t think you want me wearin’ that, Claire, I’d stretch it out.”_ Brad teases and she giggles again, her cheeks flushing pink even in the privacy of her home. “_You teasing me, Saffitz?”_

Her teeth run over her lip, because she’s Claire and she’s always gonna be a little weird and shy and in the headspace where she’s 17 years old again and has no idea where to put her desires, but he’s taking them off her hands and giving back tenfold.

“I’m trying, you not getting that?” Claire teases back. “Please? I’m so _bored_, Brad. Play with me.”

He inhales in her ear sharply and she _knows_.

“_One of us is workin’, and it ain’t you_.” Brad snarks, though his voice is deeper, catching in the back of his throat and vibrating in her ear. “_C’mon, Claire, I got like 3 minutes before they catch me goofin’ off with you._”

“Oh, even better,” Claire says into the phone happily, her head ablaze with all the ways she can get him back. “I get retribution for yesterday.”

“_Yesterday?”_ Brad asks softly. “_Oh, right._”

Claire shuffles on the chair, sitting on one leg and leaning over the dining table. “I think I let you off easy for the stuff you said about my Ferrero Rocher, after I named them after you and everything, and you can’t give me one good compliment? I should punish you for that.”

Brad clears his throat softly for a second. “_Claire, I can’t do this right now…_”

“No, you’re gonna listen to me. I was so pissed at you yesterday; you know what I wanted to do?” she says quietly, as if the entire world is listening in on this conversation. Her heart’s racing in her chest, scared and turned on, wanting him to suffer. “I wanted to tie your nice strong arms to your desk chair, tie them nice and tight until they’re all red and sore and you can’t move, and you can’t touch me. But I can touch all I want to, can’t I?”

“_Fuck, yeah, Claire...”_ he groans in obedience, as if he can’t help but play into her little game. She wants to truly break him. “_What else you gonna do to me?_”

The confidence swirls around her head, because he wants her, because he loves it when she does this, when she’s brave enough to try something new.

“I’d suck your cock into my mouth until you’re aching, and I can taste how bad you want me. You always want me, right?” She licks her lips, remembering how she’d channelled her pissed-off anger into wanting to torture him back. “I know how badly you wanna rip through the rope and fuck me over your desk. But you can’t. It’s my show now. And I get to take a ride on you, I get to come on you as much as I want, and you don’t get to. Doesn’t that make you mad? All tied up, can’t just take what you want. You’ll have to beg me, Brad. I like it when you beg. I bet it makes you taste so sweet.”

“_Fucking Christ, lady,_” he spills into her ear, sounding wrecked, sounding raw. “_This ain’t fair_.”

“Know my favourite part, Brad?” Claire says, pressing a hand between her clothed thighs, rocking slightly and gasping as the tingle spreads and her ache fades. “I get to make myself come _right now_. And you don’t get to. You don’t even get to _hear_ me.”

There’s nothing but tense silence and his heavy breathing mixing with her soft gasps. His name’s being yelled in the distance and Brad snaps back at them, his voice strangled and dirty. Claire’s cheeks feel like they’re on fire, her lip swollen as she rocks onto her palm just a little, imagining his hands clenching and thighs shaking for her. It’s only stoking a flame inside them both, she knows, a burning ember that had caught her alight. It’s been so good for so long now, months and months, and he’s not even kissed her in reality, he’s never even tried. She might die if he touches her.

It must burn him as much as it burns her, right?

“_I’ll get you back for this_,” Brad says as the line goes dead.

Even Claire’s a little wide-eyed at the litany of filth he texts her ten minutes later.

\---

They’re supposed to stay _professional_. That’s what she’d said, that was the thing they silently just knew about this, about how they’re supposed to behave in the kitchen next to each other. They’re friends, just friends, and that’s all anyone else needs to really know.

(Neither mention that he’s not her boss anymore. She’s not sure why that’s a silent thing, too)

He’s always made her laugh, but he says the words _weeping peep_ and Claire giggles until she’s not sure why she was upset in the first place about some dumb marshmallow monstrosities that look as if they’ve melted into a puddle. The failure doesn’t matter. Her pale skin flushes pink in the cheeks, and his ears tinge red and Claire imagines that’s how he gets on their phone calls, flushed and grinning and focussed entirely on her, on making her feel _good_.

Things change; there’s a need inside her only met by him, and this line they’ve drawn is somehow still working almost six months after the fact. It’s terrifying when she actually stops and thinks about it.

So she doesn’t.

\---

Brad swears he would compose fucking poetry about Claire’s eyes, about how she looks at him from under those thick lashes, with the crinkles at the corners when she laughs, about how she can’t keep them from broadcasting all and any fucking emotion she has. He could spend years trying to map every fleck of gold and black onto paper and never get anywhere close to how beautiful they are.

There’s this taste of bitter salted caramel on Brad’s tongue, and butter and chocolate, and Claire looks at him as he leans over the kitchen countertop, ever closer, closer, looks him in the eyes as he tastes and it’s like she’s willing him to love it. All he can do is see the curves of her face like he’s looking at her for the first time.

It’s a _moment_. He sees her. One fucking burst of longing, of wanting to kiss her and feel how her face fits in his palm, feel how smooth her cheek is. She’s pale and tired, and beautiful – so beautiful he can’t breathe.

(He knows that’s what her mouth will taste like if he kisses her now – of butter and salted caramel and the breath she stole from him long ago)

But there’s a camera in their faces and the moment’s gone as the flavour on his tongue fades and he remembers what they _aren’t_.

\---

“_Okay, tell me the truth; do I super fucking suck at baking?_” Claire says, sighing down the phone because she’s Claire Saffitz and she takes failure worse than anyone he knows. “_Like, should I give back my certificate from culinary school? I feel like I should._”

Brad can’t help but roll his eyes and chuckle as he sinks down onto his worn couch; he’s got a cold beer in his hand and her talking to him again so that’s pretty much paradise right there. What more could he need right now?

“If you gotta give yours back, then I fucking should too. I failed just as hard, Half-Sour.”

“_Not true. I failed twice: mathematically, I failed double what you did._”

He furrows his brow, planting bare feet on the coffee table in front of him. “So, what… I gotta give back half? What’s the take-away here, babe?”

“_Well, one, that I suck._” She can probably hear how hard he rolls his eyes. “_And two, I am never eating another fucking donut as long as I live._”

“Wow, big sacrifice there,” he says with a smirk, his thumb picking idly at the label on the beer bottle. “Never ever?”

Claire sighs softly again. Brad imagines her curled up on her couch under a blanket, glasses perched on her nose and her phone to her ear, unable to turn her brain off.

“_Okay maybe not never…_” she admits. “_You think we could try again next time I’m in? Get a practice round before Hunzi gets back?_”

It’s most _Claire_ thing she’s ever said, and God, his heart stops for a second.

“Fuck yeah, you bet we are. We’re gonna nail it, Claire. We’re a fucking team, okay? So what if we kinda suck, we suck _together_, and we’re gonna figure out how _not_ to suck together too.”

They both laugh, because it’s the easiest thing in the world to do when he’s with her. Just laugh and flirt and tease. It’s got no right, being this easy.

“_Thanks, Brad. Really. I don’t know how I’d get through this without you.”_

There it is again. The taste of bitter caramel and chocolate on his tongue. Something twinges inside Brad, painful and deep, he thinks; a tiny little thing to make him want to keep every part of her selfishly to himself.

“Yeah. Back at ya, babe,” he says, just remembering those beautiful eyes and how scared he feels when that sting inside him gets bigger and spreads, and he needs this to stop before it gets out of hand. “One thing I gotta ask, though…” he grins, shifting on the couch. “What kinda panties you got on?”

It’s then that Claire really laughs, and he can’t stop smiling either at how dumb he is for her. “_Wow, Leone, such a classy move there. No wonder you’ve got girls beating down your door with sticks. Such a stud._”

“Not answering the question, Saffitz,” he warns as she dissolves into giggles. Brad swigs his beer as his mouth runs dry at how dirty her laugh can get. “I had to stare at your perfect ass all day, okay, a man’s got needs to be met.”

“_A man needs to know I don’t have any panties on?_” Claire says with a tilt in her voice as he groans. “_Does a man also wanna know how long I haven’t had any on?_”

She’ll end him one day. That’s for fucking sure.

“Shit, so you mean all those times I was staring at your ass today…” Brad shifts on the couch again, closing his eyes and remembering the curves of her hips and the sway of them as she walked, how she bent down with a hand squeezing her thigh as she dug around the drawers, legs spread just enough to make him sweat. He could have stood behind her when the cameras were down, knowing she was bare under the rough denim, felt the warmth of her. “Jesus fucking Christ, lady.”

“_Rather fuck you_,” Claire says into his ear, and, God, the sound makes him hard and aching in an instant. “_That the answer you want?_”

Brad takes a breath. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about her in weeks, months even. There’s a million questions he has unanswered about Claire, there’s images in his head about how she looks naked, what her pretty face does when she comes apart around him and the hundred ways he could get it to happen. She’s so fucking loud sometimes, unashamed, crying out his name brokenly. He loves just the sound – the thought of seeing her is something else.

“One of ‘em,” Brad replies, draining his beer dry and setting the bottle down. “I dunno, Claire, I’m kinda sad I don’t get to make you ruin your panties. I was planning on making you come all over them. Now I don’t know what to make you do.”

“_Well, fuck…_” she says quietly, and he hears shuffling and fabric and her breath in his ear. Not knowing what she’s doing is a fucking thrill and a half. “_I had a shitty day, don’t be mean to me, Brad_.”

A dirty smile flashes across his face. “Nah, I think I’m gonna. Still owe you for that phone call when you were bored, and I was working.”

“_That was months ago!”_ Claire says, whining at him the way she does. “_Don’t tease. I’ll be good._”

“Good, huh? You’re gonna do exactly what I fuckin’ say for once?” he presses his palm over his crotch to ease his own tension, tells himself to keep his cool.

(That never works with Claire)

“_Yes. Please_.”

There’s silence for a moment. He keeps picturing her wide, pleading eyes, how they betray her innocence and the needy woman underneath the layers, one he wants to fuck stupid every damn day of his life, if she’d let him be that damn lucky.

“Where are you Claire?”

“_In bed,_” she replies. “_Thinking about you. God, I need you so much sometimes, Brad._”

“Yeah you do, don’t ya?” He groans as he unzips his own fly, unable to keep from touching himself any longer. “You want me to fill you up?”

“_Yes, God, yes,_” Claire whispers. “_I need it. I can forget about the world when it’s just us._”

His broad palm wraps loosely around his hard cock, wanting it to desperately feel like her soft hand taking control of him. Brad closes his eyes, imagining he’s there with her, in her bed, making a mess of the place, wrapping his arms around her waist, and pressing his lips to her neck.

(He’s so screwed)

“Touch yourself with me, Claire. Nice and slow, I know you can do it. Delayed gratification or whatever they fuckin’ call it.” He sighs softly with her as he works his palm up and down his cock, almost torturous and teasing because that’s what she would do. “Bet you’re goddamn wet, babe. You ever taste yourself?”

It’s like he can hear her hesitation through the tiny little catches in her breath. “_No…_”

“Try it for me,” he replies, imagining his tongue pressing to her cunt and eating her like she’s candy. “Tell me what you think.”

Brad’s hand stops as he hears the tiniest little sucking sound breaking through the line almost distantly.

“_Salty…” _Claire mutters after a moment. “_Not much else. Is that good?_”

“Jesus, yeah,” he says, chuckling. “I wanna taste you so fucking bad, Saffitz, it’s like a craving. Keep touching for me, we’re not done until I say, right?”

“_Keep talking…”_ She trails off, the rustle of her bedsheets audible. “_I want you._”

No doubt in his mind that the only way Claire would ever follow instruction is here, privately, away from the world in their own corner of it. Pictures of her tits encased in black lace is all he’s allowed to see, and she gets that it drives him wild, the not knowing, not having the full visual he craves. Brad likes digging in the dirt of everything he does, trying everything and seeing what sticks, and that includes Claire. He goes deep until he knows her body without ever even touching it, making her try new things, find parts of herself she didn’t know were there. It’s his, that part of her. All fucking his.

“I want you too, fuck, keep touching for me.” He imagines her canting into her hand, looking to get something hard inside her. “It’s fuckin’ crazy, right? Don’t you spend all day sometimes, just thinking about what would have happened that night? Wonder if you could even take all of me at once, babe.”

_“Watch me-_” she says, the smirk evident in her voice. Claire loves being challenged. “_I can take you… I can take it. C’mon…_”

A dumb grin flashes over his face again. “Yeah? Can I fuck you til you break? Bend your knees to your tits and go deep as I want?”

“_Please, fuck- yes. Please, please, I need you inside me…_”

It’s easy for him to be mean, he thinks, but Brad just can’t keep from being greedy. He wants to hear her fall apart, imagine her tight and hot, full of his cock and begging for more.

“Do exactly what I say, Claire. You’re gonna put the phone on speaker, okay, and slide that pink toy inside your pussy for me, babe. It’s gonna make you feel so good, that’s all I want for ya, Claire.” He hears her whimper softly in his ear again and he has to keep from coming. “Just want you to feel good.”

“_Okay, yes, fuck. Just hold on-_”

Waiting for her is the hardest thing. He needs to come so bad, but it _has_ to be with her. Brad needs to know she’s imagining him inside her, pounding her until she shatters and comes so hard that she sees nothing but darkness and starlight.

His skin’s hot and feverish, his hard cock red and pulsing with a desperate need to fuck her, to claim her and suck marks into her skin. He’s never been like this with anyone else, it’s only ever her. This burning need to take her is out of his control – it’s all hers.

“Claire?”

“_Shit… hi.”_

“There’s my girl,” Brad says, relieved as she gasps. “Gonna make you come on me, Claire. Tell me how it feels.”

His hand squeezes his cock as he gets to listen to her breath catching and voice breaking. “_Thick. Full. Oh my God…” _Claire whines and he hears her take deeper breaths. “_Please._”

“So good to me, fuck, yes,” he jerks himself a little faster, curses that her voice is further away, that he’s missing all the tiny sounds she’s making as the pleasure threatens to break, but it’s the compromise he makes for her, so she can come hard as she wants. “Fuck yourself, touch your clit, I wanna hear it. Bet you’re so hot and wet for me. God, you’re so fucking beautiful.” Brad’s barely holding it together, panting and clutching desperately to the phone against his ear.

“_Oh God, oh fuck. Brad…_”

Brad just listens, jerking off as she fucks herself on his orders, the sound of her getting desperate and whiny. He imagines her fingertips rubbing and pressing her wetness everywhere until she’s messy and gasping, hips canting up and legs like Jello, wanting it to be him splitting her in fucking half, wrecking her.

“Harder,” he barks, a sharp stab of pleasure spearing through his spine. “Faster. Scream for me.”

“_Brad, Brad, Brad…” _Claire babbles in his ear, her cries breaking and shattering into a thousand desperate pieces. “_Please._”

“You’re mine, Claire.” His lips are dry, teeth gritted as he holds off his own as long as he can. “Say it.”

“_Yours, I’m yours, all yours- oh fuck!_” She cries and gasps and he _knows_ before she even says. “_Gonna come._”

His head hits the back of the couch as he jerks fast and hard, thrusting his cock up into his tight fist. “Wanna fill you up so fucking full, shit, Claire, come with me, wanna come in you, make you a mess…”

“_Yes, yes, yes, yes! Brad!_” The sound of her sobbing his name in relief as she breaks is the sweetest thing in the world.

He comes sharp and hard with her, thinking about her dripping with him, her face slack and happy, blissed. He’ll make her come again and again and again until she begs him to stop.

She’s his, his, _his_.

\---

Pop Rocks are not food: they’re sugar and science and she’s pretty sure there’s a dash of magic in there too. Claire doesn’t want this, she doesn’t want to be set up to fail from the off, even for a fucking view count and ad revenue. Screw Duckor, screw Rapo and Condé for making her do this, because she can see the comments section before the video’s even shot. They’ve set her up to fail, but she fails because she didn’t _try._

_It’s not fair_.

Her attitude’s kind of shitty – she knows she can’t win this battle, digs her heels in, makes excuses and barely cares. Claire makes weird sugar thing after weird sugar thing, says that she’s done (she’s not), and complains every second. See, she’s expecting this. She doesn’t _want_ to try – because Pop Rocks are stupid, and dumb and they make her feel worse than Starburst.

But then Brad leans across her counter. He tells her she _nailed it_. Their eyes meet and she feels something _different_. It melts inside her and makes her feel warm and safe, admired and challenged.

(This is probably when it all goes wrong)

\---

The spill’s flowing over, past the edges and into the cracks of her, stains her skin and won’t fade. It floods Claire’s heart, suffocates her when he’s not there and kills her when he is, and she wants more, more, more of him. His voice, his smiles, his everything.

Colorado in July is a dream and a nightmare.

There’s no knock on her hotel room door or kiss placed on her tentative lips as they walk back from dinner together. He barely taps her arm with his knuckles, and she can’t bring herself to press her forehead into his shoulder. Like it’s too much. Like they’re a touch of skin away from something meaningful, a breath on her lips could spark and burn like fireworks.

She’s in her pyjamas in bed when her phone rings.

“Hey…” Claire says quietly. “I didn’t think-”

“_I know. I just…_” Brad sighs deeply, like it comes from his bones and for the first time, Claire realises that maybe he’s exhausted too. “_I don’t wanna complicate-_”

“You don’t owe me anything, Brad.” Claire closes her eyes, brings her knees up to her chest in bed. “Maybe this is just easier than face-to-face, right?”

He’s quiet for the longest moment but she refuses to break the silence. “_Yeah, yeah. It’s uh… I don’t want you to think you’re just a night in a hotel and we’re done. I don’t want that._”

Claire bites her lip. “Today was a lot. I know, _I’m_ a lot.”

“_You’re not a lot, Claire.”_ He says it so softly, so measured and even that her brain can’t handle it. “_Gotta lot to do the next couple days. You get some sleep for me, yeah?”_

“Yeah. Yeah,” she replies, letting her knees fall back down from her chest. “Night, Brad.”

\---

Brad leans over the balcony of his hotel room, seeing his exhausted face in the black mirror of his phone screen reflected back at him. Below him is not fucking much – couple cars, some lights, people hand in hand making memories.

Colorado was a bad idea.

(How’d he get so fucking _involved_ in this when it had just started out so easy? Just a couple of drunk idiots looking for some fun, burning off some tension and attraction, and now?)

He blames Duckor and Rapo and YouTube. He blames Ouzo and her green dress, and Duxbury, Massachusetts. He blames Claire and her fucking eyes and now he’s got it _bad, bad, bad_.

A rough palm rubs over his face to clear his head. He’s gotta try, try and stop his heart from getting too fucking entangled with a woman that far out of his league. Guys from New Jersey suburbs with dirt under their nails don’t get to have the Claire Saffitzes of the world.

At least, they don’t get them for long.

_(I’m a lot_, she’d said.

He thinks she’s more than he should get)

\---

Forget pie competitions in Colorado; spending fake Thanksgiving at her parent’s vacation home in Cape Cod is an even _worse_ idea.

It’s the worst fucking idea the whole production team’s ever had because he looks up at Claire on the front porch of her house and every step he takes towards her is like coming home where he’s meant to be.

She’s so _different_.

Since the moment Claire walked out barefoot in the grass to greet everyone, it’s been like looking at another person entirely. She grins and laughs and doesn’t seem to care about the mess and the chaos around her, the disorder and anarchy that a couple dozen people create when they invade a place he knows she loves with all her heart.

(It’s _home_)

Brad tries, he really tries not to look too long at the family photos on the walls, tries not to grin at six year old Claire in pigtails beaming at the world, with a heaving basket of clams at her feet because she’s too little to pick them up. This place is _hers_: her family, her childhood, her _life_.

She doesn’t even freak out when he tells her the turkey’s fucking raw – he doesn’t know _this _Claire Saffitz.

By all fucking rights, he should feel out of place. But she sways back and forth in her rocking chair right next to him, commanding, in control and at home and it hurts that he can’t have all of her all the damn time like he craves. It feels wrong to demand more pieces of her when she’s split in so many directions.

That’s when he knows for sure that he’s falling too hard in love with a woman he can’t really have.

\---

It’s nearing the end of August and Brad hasn’t called her since their fake Thanksgiving in Cape Cod. Claire doesn’t know why, but the days drag on, they drain her little by little, more and more and more.

It’s like he barely talks to her at work some days, too; Dan and Kevin and Rhoda even have to _ask_ him to be on camera when she makes Pop Tarts and Pocky and M+Ms, like he doesn’t want to be there. He snaps and mumbles and keeps his back to the camera or talks to Chris like she’s not there. _Brad doesn’t care_, and she lets it go. If this is how it ends, how they end, whispering into a void, then that’s it.

Everything kinda sucks. His gaze doesn’t want to meet hers and yeah – okay – that _hurts_ more than her failed attempts at candy coatings.

So he’s done with her – she knows deep in her gut that it’s true, that it’s finished. A year’s not bad, Claire tells herself as summer comes to an end. It’s not fair on either of them to pretend that it’s normal when in reality, she’s probably wasted his time.

She just wishes he’d look her in the eye again at least.

(M+Ms are stupid too)

\---

It doesn't make the spark fade, not on her end. Her imagination picks at whatever hope is leftover, because Brad watches her even more carefully now, like she's a timebomb about to go off in his face. She opens a drawer and sees the rolling pin he bought as a present for her and Claire's heart skips in maybes as her gaze lingers over it just a fraction too long.

Maybe he wants her (but not enough). Maybe he misses her as much as she does him (but not enough). Maybe this is all a blip (but _she’s_ not enough).

There's only so much pain a person can take. Whatever they’ve become is not what she meant to happen. It was supposed to be _fun_. Claire needs _fun_.

She tries to lie to herself that everything's normal, or at least as normal as her insane life gets. Her Hot Pockets burst and burn and split at the seams over and over, because she fucks up even the simple jobs now. She stuffs them back together as best she can, ignores that he’s trying to ignore her.

(Flirting with Alex isn’t a conscious choice)

Delany is just _there_ one day suddenly, tall, with a pretty-face like an open book – he doesn't confuse Claire or push her away, just grins at her with ease when she sasses him about cheddar and ham Hot Pockets. He teases and jokes and laughs (and flirts) with her like it's nothing, because it is nothing. It’s not _wrong_ but it doesn’t feel right either. He's too much of her type - confident, outgoing, warm and charming, sweet and – she thinks – way out of her fucking league (like Brad is). 

It doesn’t stop her from glaring daggers at the whole fucking Test Kitchen staff when they take over her station. It hits her as she sits there at the stove next to Brad as he works (that’s all she gets now), just how exhausted she is from the endless waiting for things to fail – waiting for Hot Pockets to burst, waiting for Brad to call time on their nothing relationship.

(She’ll be damned if he’s gonna make her be the one to pull the plug)

_It’s not fucking fair._

Claire rubs at the back of her neck as she pulls on her jacket at the elevator bank, the weight of the past few weeks resting on her shoulders as she works out a kink in the muscle. It’s been too much, some nights, waiting for the phone to ring in her hand as she drinks wine and watches trash TV, tries to forget the sound of his voice in her head, telling her where to put her hands.

“Hey Claire,” Brad says from her side, his tone back to being terse and tense and God, she fucking hates it.

_This is it;_ she thinks. _He’s done._

“Hey,” she mumbles back, turning to barely glance at him as she pulls her too-long hair from the collar of her jacket. “Down?”

“Yeah,” he replies curtly.

Brad’s foot is bouncing on the floor and the sound’s getting on her last damn nerve until she wants to snap and tell him to just fucking quit it.

She’s never been more fucking miserable in her life. The silence stretches and stretches as his foot taps, taps, taps. Brad’s never been this quiet before in his life, she’s sure. The words are threatening to bubble out of her own mouth, just rip the band-aid off because it’ll hurt worse the more you peel it off bit by bit. That’s how it feels, as if he’s tearing strips off her skin and letting her drain slowly.

(She doesn’t have much of herself left to give)

The elevator doors are barely closed behind them when Claire finally, finally _snaps_.

“God, can you just say what you wanna say, Brad. Get it done so we can move on with our lives?” She breathes out, clutching at the strap of her purse laying over her shoulder, her back to the metal walls. “Just say it.”

“Jesus Christ.” He laughs humourlessly. “What do I wanna say, Claire?” His eyes can’t meet hers fully – they flicker and fade as the elevator carries them down, down, down, the numbers on the display flicking lower. “What d’you think I wanna fucking say right now?”

“I don’t know,” Claire swallows thickly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “But you haven’t called me in weeks, Brad, okay, and I know it’s not because you’ve been busy or whatever. I tried – God – I tried calling you and you gave me excuse after excuse and I-” she pauses, finally catches his stormy blue eyes in her gaze; she holds them tight because it might be the last piece of him she gets to keep for herself. “Be a fucking man and just end this if you wanna end it. I’m done with being confused.”

Brad just seems to listen, his face twitching back and forth into a blank slate of nothingness. He’s a hard man to read, but she’s usually been able to see through the bullshit he puts out for the rest of the world. Now, Claire has no idea what’s going on in his head, she has no idea what he really _wants_.

(She’s too scared to ask)

“You done?” He says, hands still stuffed deep into his pockets. “I get a fuckin’ word in now?”

“_Brad_-”

“Well, you see, you said you were _mine_, Claire.” Her heart stops as he steps towards her slowly, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “You said that to me. Is that what you are, still? Or you wanna go suck _Delany’s_ cock and pretend you don’t wish it were me in your mouth instead?”

Fuck him.

_Fuck him._

Her eyes flare and burn with tears, her fingers twitching, itching to make him hurt. “Don’t-”

“I need-” Brad swallows thickly and it’s then that Claire sees the tightness in his jaw, the spark in his eyes that scares her shitless. “Jesus Christ, Claire, I needed to see if I could go a fucking month without thinking about the way you say my name when you come, and I can’t even do _that_. I need you.”

“We can’t just keep doing this, it’s-”

“It’s kinda bullshit, Saffitz. Bullshit and ya know it. We can do whatever we fucking want to do, you just don’t want to _try_. It’s a game, right, that’s how this began, just you and me and a couple hundred miles of loneliness. Jesus, lady, I tried to get you outta my system and you’re too goddamn stubborn to leave. And I fuckin’ _blink_ and you’re making Alex Delany a fuckin’ snack and laughing and showing off for _him_ when it should be me_._”

He’s a foot away from her now and has her backed against a wall, his eyes tethered to hers unbreaking and bonded, but her tongue is tied in ribbons and her head spins out of control.

“I… I can’t handle this right now.”

“Thought you could take me?” He mocks, breathing heavily. Brad looks up to the ceiling as if he’s searching for self-control and finding crumbs. “You think I didn’t want to call you every damn night? You’re _mine_, remember?”

“You’re the one who stopped calling,” she replies, mouth dry. His body challenges her, invades her space so he’s a few inches away from her and everything’s spinning wildly out of her control. “I’m not the _jealous_ one.”

He crowds her again, one fist against the wall above her head. “No, Saffitz, you’re the one who comes so hard for me that you say _thank you_ every fuckin’ time_. _Imagine what I could do if you let me _touch_ you.”

Part of her wants him to do this – just take her, fuck her rough and raw, slide his fingers inside her right here and now and make her sorry for ever flirting with Alex Delany. But it’s already too much, too scary and real, the need for him bursting out of her.

“Not here-” Claire whispers as the numbers count down on the lift display. They’re gonna get caught. It’s all gonna blow up in her face, and they’ll be nothing left of her. “_Please_-”

Brad glances down at her heaving chest, his eyes grazing her flushed cheeks and parted mouth. She’s been starving for him all this time and suddenly he’s surrounding her, the size of this man towering and strong. He could make her come from just his words; she has no idea how to deal with the real thing in front of her.

“I don’t gotta be a mind reader to know you’re fucking soaked for me right now, Claire.”

She shakes her head, panicking as the numbers creep lower and lower on the display. Her heart hammers in her chest and breaks her ribs into pieces like shattered glass.

“I know,” she whispers, biting her lip. “It’s not that I don’t want you, it’s not-”

“Just tell me you’re mine.” Brad says, still looming over her. His head inches closer and closer to hers, breath hot on her cheek so his lips are just there for hers to take if she wants. “Tell me you’re mine and we can go back to how it was. Make it uncomplicated, right? Just give me _something_, Claire, _please_.”

The numbers count lower still. The elevator slows.

“I’m _yours_, I’m yours.” She whispers. His face is a breath away from her and it’s already too much. “Always.”

The metal doors shift and slide and then Brad’s gone, he’s striding through them without another word and his absence is a void. She’s suffocating with the need of him, gasping for air. Claire just stands there for a moment, wanting and shaking because she _knows_.

\---

He makes sure to keep her on the phone for hours that night. Makes her come again and again and again. Makes her plead and gasp and he fucking loves it. Brad missed her – he’ll take anything he can get – scraps, crumbs, he’ll eat them all for the sound of her begging him for more.

(He’s hers too)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm sorry. Come yell at me on [Tumblr](https://queenofthecon.tumblr.com) to get my ass in gear and write part three.
> 
> ((do I have a thing for tense elevator scenes?))


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait on this one. Remember as always, this is fictional - no harm is intended and I'm just trying to keep my head on while we slog through the weird new world around us. I love these two and their chemistry and that's it. Please respect - don't share, don't spread, don't hate.
> 
> Thank you to El for kicking my ass and to BTC for giving us Wyoming!Brad. I owe you my life.

Claire’s not expecting it when it happens.

That’s her reason for turning the guy down, anyway – snap decisions aren’t really her forte and he had seemed kinda pushy to her. Even at work, Claire likes to sit; she likes to think about her methods and recipes and gather ingredients before she’s even turned on an oven. Getting hit on by random guys at bars is only ever going to end in her turning them down. That’s the only reason.

(She likes to pretend this is why)

_He_ saw it all, of course. All of her friends, her co-workers, wolf whistle and catcall when she walks back to their table with beers in hands. It’s like they’re kids, egging her on even though she’s turned this guy down two or three times in a row. Maybe he’s as nice a person you get hitting on you at a Manhattan bar on a Friday night: he didn’t try and feel her up, or do the weird thing men do when they claim they’re just trying to get past you when actually they just want to put a hand on your back. He’s _fine._ He’s even her type – tall, broad shoulders, charming, nice smile. Claire turns him down anyway (again).

It’s not that she’s _not_ dating. He’s just not Brad.

Her face contorts as she carries those ice-cold beers back to their table, desperately trying not to look at the blue storm gathering in Brad’s eyes, even though she can feel his gaze searing into her skin, like he’s branded her somehow. It’s been like this since the elevator – Brad just _glances_ at her and she can feel him like he was then, close to her, caging her in, wringing out all her feelings and need into a puddle on the floor. _Make it uncomplicated_. It makes her laugh now. _Uncomplicated_ doesn’t get jealous and possessive when she talks to other men.

But – fuck - he looks good tonight and he knows it. The black of his t-shirt stands in contrast to tanned, warm skin, his wild curls spilling from the sides of his cap, all broad strength and ego. Brad Leone could pick up any woman in the bar if he wanted to.

(He wants _her_)

The beers clink as Claire puts them down on the table in front of her friends, and she sits safely between Chris and Carla. Delany gives her a deep wolf-whistle and her cheeks go bright red even as she rolls her eyes at him. She doesn’t dare sit next to Brad anymore.

“Woah, _Claire Saffitz_, I think you broke that dude’s heart, like fucking shattered it. He’s been eye fucking you all night,” Delany laughs easily, taking one of the beers for himself before the others descend. “You got a secret boyfriend on the side or something?”

Molly smacks Delany’s arm, her eyes bugged and wide. Claire feels like the ground could swallow her whole and she’d thank it. “Oh my God, that’s totally it! Claire’s got a guy!”

“Wait, you have a boyfriend finally?” Carla asks as she leans forward and grabs a bottle, only half-listening, her phone in her hand. “When did that happen?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend!” Claire protests, slumping back down into her seat, her skin hot from alcohol and embarrassment. She’s gonna kill Delany tomorrow. “He’s not my type, that’s all.”

Both Andy and Molly snort in laughter and share a look that she could only describe as conspiratorial. They do that a lot, Claire thinks, have that secret language between them like siblings do, like she has with her own sisters. They can smell a secret from ten paces.

“Claire, that guy was everyone’s type and he was looking at you like you were a snack. There’s only one reason to turn him down.” Andy says, shaking his head. “Definite secret boyfriend.”

Claire is about to sink into an abyss and go tell the guy yes instead, just to prove a point, just to be bratty and obstinate. They’re always poking at her, those three, because they can tell something’s changed. Or changing.

“Can we just not talk about this, please…”

And then there’s a moment when she catches sight of Brad across the table: any thoughts about saying yes to a random man suddenly fly out of her head. She hadn’t thought about what to expect from looking at Brad and his open face. She knows – they both know – why she really turned down a date from a guy like that, one who had even made her smile with his corny jokes.

It’s because of _him. _It’s because of the unspoken, tenuous thing, this hold between her and Brad that keeps each tethered to the other, separated by a thin veil of control. She’s his, and that’s all that’s been said, all that’s needed to be said.

When she looks at it, Brad’s face isn’t flushed like hers is. He’s not angry or stoic, or even jealous. He’s _smiling_. He’s teasing, that smirk in his eyes sparkling like starlight with the bottle to his lips hiding the meaning behind it.

“Come on, Saffitz,” he says finally. “You got some mystery man keepin’ you company at night? We gotta know who the poor bastard is so we can hunt him down if he hurts you.” He’s loud and loose, loud enough for all the table to hear. “He good lookin’ at least?”

She catches herself before she chokes on her own drink, looking around the table as Molly, Delany and Andy look at her with teasing smirks as well – those three think they’ve caught her out, that they’re gonna make her squirm until she blurts out the truth. Claire’s had enough.

“You know what? Yeah, he’s _really_ good looking,” she replies after a moment to think, unable to look any one of them in the face too long. “Lives upstate, works in the city…” Claire bites down on her bottom lip, leaning across the table conspiratorially. “And he’s _great_ with his hands.”

“Holy shit, _Claire_!” Molly gasps as Brad’s eyes bug. Molly and Andy break into half-drunk laughter because this has never been her – she doesn’t kiss and tell, and it feels so far out of her depth. Kinda worth it to make Brad look at her like he is now – hungry and shocked in equal measure. “Really?!”

Brad tips half a bottle of beer down his neck, his gaze fixed anywhere but at Claire’s face as if he’ll break if he looks her in the eyes. The tether between them gets tugged a little tighter every damn day.

(Her cheeks are burning hot just thinking about what he’s gonna say to her when she gets home tonight)

“How come you never told us?” Delany asks, frowning slightly. They’ve been at the drinks for a couple hours know and they’re all getting louder and louder. “We gotta meet this guy, Claire, give him the _talk_.”

“Fuck yeah, we do!” Brad replies, clapping Delany on the shoulder as Brad finishes his fourth beer. “He could be a fuckin’ asshole for all we know, Claire, we gotta look out for ya. You know what your taste in guys is like.”

“She _does_ attract some major assholes,” Andy argues, nodding knowingly at Brad. “Remember that banker guy, Mark? The one who didn’t like seafood?”

The entire table, even Carla and Chris, groan in synch, and Molly visible cringes.

“Wait, what?!” Claire laughs, shaking her head. “Did everyone hate Mark?”

Carla turns her phone face down, tipping her head to the side as she looks at Claire. “Oh yeah, Mark was a real piece of work. You just couldn’t see it because you were too close to him. Happens to the best of us, hon.”

They all nod in agreement, and even Chris tilts his shoulders – which is Chris-talk for _you know they’re right_. Claire is tipsy, laughing because she has shitty taste in men, apparently. It’s news to her. God knows what they’d think about her and Brad being… whatever the fuck they are.

“Was Mark the one who pronounced the T in often?” Delany laughs too, draping an arm over Molly’s chair when everyone nods. “Never trust a guy like that, Claire.”

“And all those fucking flashy watches and the Armani shoes!” Molly interjects, piling on. “And he called you _just a_ _cook_. You hate being called ‘just’ anything.”

Brad smiles a little kinder, and it makes her stomach lurch in turn. “He never got your coffee order right, either. Could never remember whatcha wanted. Sometimes it’s little stuff that makes or breaks you, Claire. But hey, maybe your super-secret, hunk of a new man is a vast fuckin’ improvement on that guy.”

Claire drags her bottom lip over her teeth again, nursing her third beer of the night, keeping her gaze on Brad’s passive face. He’s so fucking hard to read sometimes – like there’s a brick wall around him that she can’t see over.

“He’s uh… he’s a good guy.” Claire replies after a moment when her cheeks are red, and her friends have all pulled her apart for gossip. “I think.”

(She’s sure she just saw Brad wink)

Thing is, they aren’t _uncomplicated_. They’re bleeding at the edges, blurring slowly between versions of themselves, she thinks, but it’s starting not to feel scary anymore because she wants the reality so badly that she can taste it on her tongue. Claire sees the way he looks at her, those longing gazes, and the distance between them feels too much and not enough all at once. They belong to each other, and they don’t. It’s terrifying how much it doesn’t terrify her.

An hour later, she’s settling the tab at the bar, all of her friends long gone, when her phone screen lights up with a text.

_Good with my hands, huh?_

Claire smiles.

\---

Her purse hits the kitchen counter at 12.05am.

He calls at 12.06.

\---

It’s getting harder not to notice the way Brad looks at her at work every now and then, when he’s not got a hundred other things to do in the kitchen. It hadn’t been there before, she’s sure. Being flirty is one thing, yeah, but the way he stares at her so brazenly is something else entirely. He’s heady sometimes, dark and wanting, just for a flash and it’s gone into an abyss.

The cameras are starting to pick up on it too. It’s only when Dan shows her that day’s shots, weeding out the ones she doesn’t want to keep, that she sees it for the first time, clear as day, blink-and-you-miss-it.

(Dark and wanting, dark and wanting)

Brad is there on the screen, leaning deeply across her station as she pokes and messes about with her too-sour Warheads. His eyes on the screen flicker from her face to her chest and down to her hands while she grins down at what he’s talking about, oblivious. Legal limits and his wild teenage years, the smile on her face knowing and wide. But the line of his sight is unmistakable.

If Dan notices, he doesn’t say. Claire does get a veto in what she’ll let in the episodes now, she has the power to take it out if she wants, if she wants to keep that look for herself and ignore that it happened or let it out for the world to pick up on.

“Keep or trash?” Dan asks absently. He doesn’t care.

“Keep it,” Claire says eventually. It won’t be out for a couple months anyway. “It’s funny.”

\---

Another week and Brad leaves for an airport, flying down to Austin for work. Again.

More new faces, more time zone changes, more of living out of his duffel bag and trying not to think about how much he misses being near _her_ already. Leaving New York felt different this time; she had known it too, he thinks – there was too much tension in Claire’s shoulders that he hadn’t been able to pull out, too much of a sadness around her lingering as he said a goodbye that was too casual for either of them. It’s not the goodbye he wanted to give.

(God, he knows they’re teetering here. On a brink between all or nothing. He wants, wants, wants. She’s left him once already)

Something holds him back from asking for more, from ruining what they have. It’s fear, yes, but longing too, longing for her to destroy him so he can let himself feel all he knows deep down he feels about her. Claire could cut him open and he’d say thanks.

Maybe the whole fucking edit of Milky Way would make it seem like Claire was tense and terse over having to make nougat too fluffy to ever be fit for human consumption. He doesn’t think (hopes) that was the reason why, though. Going away before hadn’t felt like a huge thing, not since the first shoot, not since the first time he’d called her all those months ago, lonely and needy and scared. No, going to Austin _now_ feels wrong. She should be here, with him, holed up in a hotel, soaking in each other. It would have been worth the risk to his sanity.

It’s not until he’s sitting on another too-soft hotel bed that he realises he’d not been able to get one more look at the curves of her face, at the way her eyes pull him into their void, or the smell of vanilla lingering on her hair, intoxicating and sweet.

(He looks at her too much, never able to stop)

It almost makes him miss the days before the videos, when nobody gave a fuck about how many glances he took at the sway of her hips as she walked.

Brad just _has_ to see her face, like there’s an itch under his skin he can’t get rid of without hurting himself too. Claire is a need, a vital fucking function to his wellbeing, and it barely matters what she wants. Making the choice to call her over FaceTime at 6pm on a Friday is not something he’d exactly thought through – he just really wants to see her smile at him.

“_Hey Brad_,” Claire answers, the image a little fuzzy around the edges as if she’s in his dreams again, but the smile on her lips is shining and beautiful. It breaks her face (his heart) like it always does.

“Hey hot stuff,” Brad mutters in reply, raking his eyes over her, drinking every curve of her skin. She looks tired and tense, yeah, but it becomes soft and sleepy and perfect in one flat moment. “Missing me already? Yeah, bet you are.”

It’s kinda incredible seeing her rather than just hearing her voice. Claire Saffitz has never been able to hide her feelings from him, and now he gets to watch something warm flicker in her eyes and in her smile before it’s probably even registered to her.

“_You are a total egomaniac_,” she sasses; the teasing glint she gives him is visible on the screen and – fuck – he wants to have her already. “_Good flight?_”

“Babe, I’m 6’4, ain’t no such thing as a good flight,” Brad replies, the weight of their missing goodbye lifted. He toes off his wicker shoes on the hotel floor and lies flat back against the bed. "Four hours spent curled with my knees to my fuckin' ears, not what you call a good flight."

“_Stop whining, you big baby. You're there now._” Claire gets up from her couch and walks through her apartment. "_Get to relax, take the weight off, see the sights after you wrap tomorrow_."

"Relax?" Brad snorts. "Sure. I got like a fuckin’ hour before I gotta go meet up with Kevin and Hunzi for those fuckin' background shots Hunzi loves. Atmosphere or some bullshit, I don’t know. Just wanted to see you."

He sees something else flicker and he feels it too. "_You should take a nap or something then, if you have to work tonight. You work too hard, apparently with your knees around your ears. Didn’t even know you could bend that way._"

"Was kinda hopin’ I’d get to talk to you instead. I was gonna ask how Milky Way ended up fucking you, Saffitz. Last time I saw you, I thought you were gonna jump off the roof of the building to end the misery."

She groans audibly and shakes her head. He can see the kitchen in the background now, her hands propping the phone up on a shelf above her countertops.

"_They had me make a Milky Way – it went about as well as you think it did._” Claire sighs a little too, though there is a tinge of a smile at the corners of her mouth on the screen as she messes with the phone. “_Never wanna see an egg white ever again, Brad, I’m serious.” _

The tension seeps from his own shoulders now that he knows she’s okay. That she’s not going back to Starburst level of frustration. “Who even cares about egg whites? Egg whites are pointless and everyone knows it. You’re gonna _nail_ the next one, Claire. You always fuckin’ do, I ain’t got any doubt about it. Milky Way ain’t even good Halloween candy.”

Claire grins back and his heart thuds at the sight as she runs her fingers through wild, messy hair that is barely to her shoulders. She’s leaning over her kitchen counter on one arm now, her shirt opened just deep enough so he can see the line of her pale neck and his mouth waters.

(All Brad can think of is how she’d look with that soft, creamy skin marked up with hickeys, with teeth marks and beard burn. The distance feels too much, the need too much)

“_Flattery gets you everywhere, Leone,_” Claire replies, licking her lips. “_Is Austin at least worth the crappy flight?_”

“Austin’s good, I guess. Unicycles and a lot of fuckin’ hipsters but it’s kinda cool,” Brad says, watching as Claire straightens up and wanders out of frame. He misses the view of her immediately, even if the camera does get a great angle on her ass in yoga pants when she pulls produce from her fridge. “Am I interrupting dinner or something here, Claire? You were the one asking about frickin’ Austin…”

“_I’m listening, I’m listening!_” She protests, stepping back with an armful of things he can’t make out. Claire kicks the fridge door closed and dumps produce in front of the camera. “_Wanna help make dinner? I got fennel, avocado, loads of herbs, garbanzo beans, pasta, butter…_”

“I like that pasta you make with the crispy garbanzo nugget things,” he suggests, Austin forgotten. He’s still staring at the line of her neck and the pendant hanging at her clavicle, glinting and catching his eye. This is like being at work – her cooking and him ogling. “Oh! You could do like a little like… shaved fennel salady thing with a green goddess dressing.”

“_Oh yeah, I love that idea, little parm and maybe Aleppo?”_ Claire grins, waving a wrapped block of cheese in front of the camera. “_You wanna watch?_”

(Watch. Now there’s an idea)

“Only if you pop another button down on that shirt and make it worth my while, Half-Sour.” Brad teases, beaming even brighter when Claire rolls her eyes. “Come on, a guy’s got needs, you know?”

She snorts in laughter, but obediently pops open another button on her shirt. “_Uh-huh, I know all about your needs, Brad._”

Her smart mouth is worth it for the new view. He’d seen her with low cut tops before, but this feels different: there’s a wide expanse of Claire just for his eyes only, the curves of her tits and a flash of a pale blue lace underneath, like she’d put on something pretty just for him and his greedy, greedy eyes.

(Brad imagines how easy she’d be to mark up, how she’d protest if he got one of his pocket knives and sliced her pretty lace bra in half, just because he _could_)

“Hoo boy, I gotta tell ya, that’s a _great_ view, Saffitz. Got Austin beat by a fucking mile.” Brad says, setting himself back into bed as she pulls out a cutting board and starts piling herbs together. “Talk to me. You miss me today?”

“_Oh, for God’s sake, Brad-_”

Even he can see she’s not annoyed, not really. “Nah, nah, nah, you answer the question. And don’t forget to put the water on to boil again. You know what happened the last time.”

“_Ah fuck-_” Claire mutters, turning to fill a pot with water, putting it to heat on the stove. “_And, yeah, I missed you._ _Satisfied?_”

“Oh, always satisfied with you.” Brad mutters, his eyes locked on her delicate hands as she starts prepping.

Her knife runs cleanly over her herbs, the strokes confident and careful at the same time. It’s like music, he thinks, watching her do something she’s done a thousand times before – Claire gets into a rhythm and he gets lost in the beat of it all, her fingers curling at the handle of the knife, a finger steadying the length of the blade. Brad could watch her do this forever. It doesn’t hurt that her tits move with the motion too. It’s a bonus just for him.

“I’m starting to get how those people watch you online for hours on end if this is what they see,” he mutters after a minute or two or three.

“_You like watching?_” Claire mutters, glancing up at the screen. “_Who’d have thought, huh?_”

“You complaining, there? Better watch it, Saffitz.”

“_I thought you liked it when I whined, Brad?”_ That little pink tongue of hers sticks out as she works, Claire finally slicing through all her produce before looking at him.

She goes back to crush garlic with the knife flat, her tongue teasing him as she licks idly at her lips. Claire’s acting like she’s not already wet and aching for him. He knows she is – can feel the heat from her all the way in fucking Austin. She’s a fucking _tease,_ bending forward any excuse she gets so he has a direct view down to her lace-covered tits.

Payback’s a bitch.

“Someone’s being sassy today, huh?” Brad grumbles, his voice low and rough. “Here’s me thinking I was gonna be nice to you. Maybe stand behind you, kiss your neck, press a leg between your thighs, get you off while you’re working, distract you. Kinda like how dangerous you are with a knife in your hand, but I think you’d get all fuckin’ into that as well, wouldn’t ya, Claire? I was gonna be _nice._ Instead all you’re doing is running your mouth off like a brat. Bad, _bad_ girl. Someone should stuff your mouth full before you get on my wrong side.”

Her breath catches suddenly, her eyes locked to her knife as it rocks over the garlic, back and forth, back and forth. A blush creeps up her chest as he talks her round, though it looks like she’s trying desperately to ignore him. Even he can’t look away from the way her body moves with the motion of her prep work, how she worries at her lips, at the steady fall and rise of her chest even with one button too many popped open, exposed, vulnerable. His.

“_You better be careful you don’t make promises you can’t keep, Brad,_” Claire says finally, licking her bottom lip again as she smirks. Definitely being a fucking brat today. “_Don’t want you late for your night shoot. An hour, you said?”_

It’s then that he sees what she’s up to. It’s then that he sees what she’s _doing._

Just barely from the shift of those curved hips and the bloom on her neck, her eyes glancing up towards him like she’s hiding something from him. Claire’s pressing her thighs together where she thinks he can’t see, relieving the ache he knows she has just from him watching her, talking to her, teasing and ogling.

(It’s fucking hot)

There’s no way he can resist. “Claire,” Brad says, his tone warning and dark. “Put the knife down.”

He’s had so many dreams about getting to _watch_ her come. Idle days sneaking glances at work, thinking about bending her forward over the counters and kicking her legs apart, sneaking a hand under the meeting room desk to work her into a hot, sticky mess. To get even this is better than any fucking fantasy he could ever conjure up.

The knife stills over the wood and clatters.

“_Brad-_” she replies, her breath catching.

“You wet for me?” he asks softly, low and deep and broken. He’s been a damaged man for weeks and weeks. “I saw that, Claire. You’re fuckin’ turned on by this, ain’t ya?”

Those dark eyes of hers drift up and she nods. Through the fuzzy picture on the phone, he can see her eyes blown and wide and _wanting. _“_Yes._”

“Jesus, Claire,” Brad mutters, half-hard just from seeing it in reality. “Wanna watch you come for me. Here, _now,_ just… please. Wanna see it. Take your shirt off for me.”

Part of him knows what a step this is – a dirty photo is one thing, but those are posed, practiced and careful. This is so different – she’s his Claire, raw and live and real and he wants to feast on her flesh and the sunshine of her skin. Brad watches as she picks up the bottom hem of her shirt and pulls it from her body in one movement, tossing it aside.

Claire’s wild mess of hair tumbles out, just tickling the tops of her freckled shoulders, her tits encased in more of that pretty blue lace, heavy and perfect. It’s a special kind of torture, Brad knows. To be able to see the wider picture and not be able to touch, to taste or smell, to not have her in his arms again. He had that once, almost – almost got his rough, wide hands on her creamy thighs, remembers the ghost of her lips on his in his drunken memories from that fucking holiday party. The green dress haunts him with what it had hidden. One fucking taste, and he’d been bleeding out for Claire for years.

“_Well?”_ She asks shyly, even as he sees her press her thighs together again. Her fingers curl against her stomach.

“Beautiful,” he says, having to shift his hips just to stave off his own need. “You’re so fucking beautiful, I don’t… it’s not fair.”

She smiles and he gets to watch as she reaches up tugs her bra down so those perfect tits spill out for his hungry eyes. Her hands immediately cup the weight of them, tease enough to make him imagine how many times she’s done this for him over the phone.

“_Talk to me,”_ Claire mutters, still shy, still hiding from his gaze. “_Please._”

(How could he ever deny her?)

“You know what I’d do if I was there right now? I’d press my hips into your ass so you could feel just how hard I am, cos I am fuckin’ aching for you, Claire.” Brad licks his own lips as she tugs and twists on her nipples. “Shove a hand down those pants and bend you forward, enough so you can’t fuckin’ move, can’t do anything but struggle and take it when I shove my fingers into you.”

Brad watches, eyes flaring as one slim hand slides down the front of her pants. He can’t see anything but her tits and her face but it’s more than enough to make him want to bury his cock inside her, make her beg as he fucks her over her kitchen counters.

“_Fuck, Brad…”_ she whispers, her movements slow and deliberate. “_So wet_.”

“You’re soaked, ain’t you, Claire? You see what I can fuckin’ do, just imagine how it’d feel if I was there. Wanna press your face into that counter and screw you dumb, make you take every fucking inch of me in that tight, hot cunt.” Her face contorts as she touches herself, one hand now braced against the counter, her eyes closed as her hips move too. “Yeah, you like that, babe? Fuck, you’re too good, too perfect. Wanna make a mess of you.”

“_Fuck Brad, please,_” her hand quickens, and she bends a little further forward, looking him in the eyes as she rides her own hand. “_Please fuck me.”_

“Don’t you dare fuckin’ stop, you’re so damn close already, got all wound up,” he warns as her tits bounce and jiggle with the motion. He can see all of her. “You’re gonna take it, Claire. Just gonna fucking pound you until you’re dripping on the floor. I ain’t gonna stop, not until you beg me, gonna stuff you full and make you my dessert. My own perfect cream pie.”

Claire’s eyes widen and her mouth drops open, her other hand gripping the counter hard. He can see from the tension in her shoulders and the shudder as she throws her head back that she’s there, in his own fantasy, with bruised thighs and his palm print on her ass.

“_Yesyesyes-_” she moans and bucks her hips, looking into his eyes. “_Fuck me. Want your cock._”

“Take it, gonna split you in half in your fucking kitchen, Claire.” Her hips stutter the more he talks, the more filth he throws at her from his mind. “Make you beg on your knees when I come down your throat, too. Fuck that pretty little mouth open.”

“_Brad!_”

Watching her come fast and dirty on her own hand is everything he thought it could be. Her back arches, throat exposed as her skin shines with the last of the day’s sun reflecting off it. She’s more than beautiful, more than his dreams or his fantasies could ever aspire to be. Claire says his name on her breath as she breaks and shatters and pierces his skin. He’d bleed and bleed for another minute of watching her come with his name wrapped around her tongue.

(He loves all of her)

“That’s it,” Brad groans, pressing a hand over his own hard cock because he’s gonna come in his pants if he’s not careful. “Fucking beautiful, look at you. Jesus, should have done this a long time ago, Claire. From the word ‘go’. Perfect. Mine, all fuckin’ mine.”

“_Oh god,_” she groans, leaning forward over her countertop, her chest heaving as she slides her hand back out from her yoga pants. “_I can’t believe we just did… that._”

“Better believe it, babe.” Brad grins at her, desperate to reach through the phone screen and swipe her hair from her face and suck her fingers clean. “You’re so good, so fucking good to me. Wow.”

He can see the blush on her cheeks as she grins at him. “_Not so bad yourself_,” she replies, licking her lips almost shyly. “_What about-_”

“Shh. You get your breath, babe,” he says, ignoring his hard, throbbing cock in favour of making sure she was okay after _that_. “And some water, gotta take care of you while I get the chance to.”

(He grins smugly to himself when it takes a minute for her legs to work properly again.

The word _egomaniac_ rings in his ears)

The flush of red on her skin is still there ten minutes later: her dinner is cooked and she’s straightened up, even let him watch her change into pyjamas just before the pasta’s done. All Brad does is watch her, praise flowing from his mouth as she loses all her shyness and he gets to see how soaked her underwear is, gets to stare longingly at the pale curves of her as she gets comfortable.

There’s more than vulnerability to this part. Brad knows how Claire gets too into her own head about how she’s behaving, about how others see her. It doesn’t seem to matter because he’s more than happy to tell her how he sees her – she’s fast burrowing deep into his system, never enough, just making each moment last a little longer because who knows when the next one will be.

He can see that she’s got exhaustion setting inside her as she sits down with her bowl of pasta and salad. The pretty flush has faded now, and his time has run over – he’s twenty minutes late.

(Brad hates being late)

“Claire, I-”

“_It’s okay_,” she replies, carrying the phone with her as she slumps onto the couch. “_I know._”

\---

Keeping his hands off what he knows now is soft pale skin and beautiful freckles is impossible.

Seeing her like that – raw, unrehearsed, her mouth open and her body bare just for him – they can’t go back to how things were. Brad knows he’s screwed beyond all measure the next time he walks into the test kitchen and Claire’s just standing there. He can’t stop wanting to wrap his hand around her wrist, drag her into a storage closet and tell her it’s now or never.

(What if she says never?)

He can keep it in check – or at least, he can try.

But she’s messing about with Delany, flirting and sneaking glances at his face, playing games and pushing his ice-thin patience. She’s doing it on purpose, he thinks, because it’s driving him fucking insane. It’s a treat and a torture to watch her think she’s going to get away with it.

Brad’s hands twitch on his knee as he tries talking to Chris. Claire and Delany are frying pizza rolls in front of him, screwing around for the cameras, screaming and giggling. _Delany_ gets to put his hands on her arms, _Delany_ gets to _touch _her, gets to crowd her around the microwave and box her in, gets to be near enough to see the freckles on her chest.

(_Alex_, she calls him: _Alex, Alex, Alex_)

He calls her as soon as he knows she’s home. Keeps her on a knife’s edge for an hour until she’s sweaty, begging, and his again.

\---

Claire hates the holidays. Or, more accurately, the holidays hate Claire.

If she hears the word ‘_deadline’_ one more time, she’s going to scream. Everything is piled up around her – the book, holiday orders, shooting and interviews, all those dumb handshaking events the publisher insisted on. They drain her of every drop and yet she still can’t sleep more than a few hours a night; anxiety and stress seem to cling at the edges of her dreams, seep into the cracks until she’s making stupid mistakes on camera for the world to see.

So when Alex Delany pushes a large, frosted glass of something into her hand at the Condé holiday party, she tips a third of it down her neck in one go. It’s not her fault that he’s pretty fucking good at making cocktails at least, and it’s the first night off she’s had in six damn weeks.

(She is _not_ _getting_ _drunk_)

“Your super-secret new boyfriend coming tonight, Claire?” Alex asks with a smug smirk and that glint in his eye – he’s wearing a blazer and those perfectly distressed vintage Levis he loves more than anything, in full Disco Delany mode. If he weren’t so charming, she wouldn’t let him get away with poking fun at her. “Weird how we’ve never met the guy.”

She takes another deep sip of her cocktail, rolling her eyes as she does. “What is it with you and my love life, Delany?”

“Hey, can’t a guy care about his friend?” he grins at her, talking loudly over the music. “You look kinda beat lately, someone’s gotta look out for you.”

“Thanks, but I’m a big girl, Alex. I look after myself,” she replies. “What is in this thing, by the way? It’s pretty good,” Claire asks, taking another sip of her drink. The glass is basically half empty already, warming her just nice.

“Woah, woah, I’d slow down, those can hit you hard and hot if you’re not careful,” he chuckles when her eyes widen as she takes another sip. There’s a sudden burn of something in the back of her throat, a pure alcohol hit that brings back memories of every other holiday party. “Yeaaah, that’ll be the vodka. Slow down… or speed up if you want. It’s a party, and I’m not your Mom.”

Claire snorts in laughter, her cheeks pink. “Yeah, if I can’t get at least half drunk in front of my co-workers, who can I?” she replies, her face splitting into a grin as Delany chuckles. “My parents judge me when we have half a bottle of wine with dinner. Fuck it-”

The alcohol burns as she drains the glass, blinking as it hits her. It’s only her second drink of the night, it’s _fine._

“Motherfucker-” Claire gasps out. “Good burn. No, wait, bad burn, holy shit.”

(She is _not drunk_)

His broad hand reaches up and squeezes her shoulder kindly as she and Alex dissolve into laughter together. Delany’s a lot of fun when she needs a drink and a distraction; he’s both a friend and a pain in the ass.

“Claire Saffitz the Rebel, thought we’d never meet,” Alex teases, shaking his head as he takes a step backwards, Molly’s hand is snaking around his arm and gripping tight, saying things Claire can’t hear above the music. “I know, Molls, I’m coming!”

“Sorry, Claire, he’s gotta make more drinks! Delany drink drop!” Molly calls as she drags Alex by the arm.

Delany laughs too, tilting his own half-empty glass at Claire. “Stick around for the after party, yeah? I bought bottles of the good shit down!” She dissolves into giggles again as Molly smacks him, dragging the poor boy away.

It’s only when her giggles subside, and her empty glass is gone that Claire starts to look for someone she knows isn’t there. Three conference rooms all across the floor are full of people – faces she recognises and faces she doesn’t – huddled in conversations and drinking cocktails, plates of party food in their hands. It’s suffocating, surrounded by people, by hot air and alcohol, by people dancing together and the thump of music pounding in her head. Delany’s cocktail hits differently now.

He’s not here. Brad’s not coming. She feels that disappointment like a pit in her stomach, deep down and buried. He hasn’t been at a holiday party – to any party – in a couple years now, and barely drinks when he does, barely spends any time with his guard down around them.

(They both know why. Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous)

Still, she swallows her frustration like she does every year. It’s _fine_.

An hour later, she’s wandered (_alone, alone, alone_) into the office space one floor up, seeking peace and quiet from the growing disappointment in her gut. Claire tells herself excuses – it’s hot, it’s noisy, she needs a break from _people_ – but then she spots Brad’s office, sees his messy, cluttered desk and the empty chair and she can’t keep lying to herself.

(Even here smells like him)

There are his postcards, his tchotchkes and notes, pens and pocketknives, and among them all, front and centre, a personalised jar of uneaten yellow Starbursts. He’s sentimental, she knows, even if he denies any of the like when she teases him. How long had she taken to pick out just the yellow ones? The smell of them just brings back all the good and bad memories of that week – of her failing and him picking up her pieces.

Claire has one slim hand in the open jar when her phone rings in her purse.

“Hello?” she answers, confused, still picking through the Starbursts.

“_Caught you red-handed, Claire,_” Brad’s voice replies, deep and throaty and clear. “_Knew it was you stealin’ my candy. What’s a guy gotta do, put up a sign?_”

Her head snaps up, snatching her hand out of the jar. “Brad? What? Where are you?”

“_Come on, you ain’t denying it, are ya? I can see you._”

“No…” Claire smiles despite herself, tucking her hair behind her ear. “How can you see me? You set up a spy cam or something?”

Brad laughs down the phone, and she can hear the smug smirk in his voice again. “_Nah. I’m more for the old-fashioned approach,_ _Harvard_._ Turn left._”

She spins on her heel left and he’s _there_ a few feet down the hall, leaning against the other exit to the office, his phone to his ear.

“Well hi, I guess,” Claire beams, still talking into the phone. “Didn’t think you were gonna show. You never come to these things.”

“_Didn’t think you’d have time to either,_” Brad says, pushing up from the doorway and stalking towards her. He’s wearing a suit jacket and bolo tie with his black beanie, impossibly tall and handsome and her knees weaken – actually fucking weaken – at the sight of him. One hand is buried deep in his pocket, like he’s not making her heart thud in her chest. “_Haven’t talked to you for a couple weeks. Missed your voice._”

“I know,” Claire mutters, her neck tilting up as he steps closer still. Her eyes flicker over his chest and the shirt he has on, a little tight across his broad shoulders. “First night off in like a month or something. I lost track. Alex persuaded me to come tonight.”

“_Oh, Alex_ _did, huh?_”

Brad – all 6’4 of him, dressed up and _handsome_ – stands a few strides away from her, saying Delany’s name like he’s jealous. How she ended up back here, at another party, alcohol on her breath and bad choices itching at her fingers, she doesn’t know. This scares her. He thrills her with every piercing gaze, every heavy footstep.

(She’s _gone_)

“Yeah he did,” Claire whispers, swallowing heavily. Blood pounds in her ears. “He said it’d be fun. That I’d get to dress up for once.”

(This the brink, the edge for them to fall off together and drown)

He ends the call and tosses his phone on the desk behind her; he’s close enough for her know that he smells of whiskey and smoke.

“Had to wear that dress,” he mutters, gazing down at her: Claire is eaten alive, torn apart, ripped inside out by the darkness in his sharp blue eyes. “Green suits ya. Fuckin’ gorgeous.”

Claire feels the backs of her thighs hit the edge of his desk as he steps towards her. Both his hands are buried in his pockets, holding back as much as she’s afraid to move forward.

“I uh…” she licks her lips, her cheeks blazing as Brad rakes his eyes down her body. God, he’s seen her naked, he’s kissed her all those years ago, says her name as he comes, but this? He’s never felt so _real_, never looked at her like _that_, as if he’s remembering how close they came the last time she wore a pretty, green dress to a party. “Thanks.”

It feels right and it feels wrong. She’s crashing, burning, itching to touch him, for him to touch her.

(_Her head screams_

_Her thighs ache_

_H__er heart thuds_)

“So beautiful,” Brad stops in front of her dead, unable to choose where he wants to look at her first, his gaze dancing between her face and her body. There’s a foot between them but it could be an inch and it’d be too much space (and not enough). “_Claire_-”

Rough knuckles – unhesitant, unwilling to stop – reach out and graze over her, dragging slowly from her soft belly to the centre of her chest, lingering under her breasts. Claire can’t breathe, just presses her thighs back into the desk, looking from his hands to his face. Brad’s eyes trace the path before they land on her half-open mouth.

It’s barely a touch and she’s _dizzy_.

“Brad-” Claire says softly, her chest heaving. _Too much, too soon, too public._

“What are you so scared of?” he whispers, shaking his head. His thumb barely grazes the underside of her breast as he runs his hand towards her waist. “It’s only me.”

When he leans in, everything screams at her to _let go_. Claire licks her lips, can’t even pull herself from his eyes to notice he’s tucking her hair back behind her ear.

“That’s what I’m scared of,” she whispers. Brad is there, right there, leaning down, open and willing and she’s so fucking terrified. “There’s no _only _you.”

His fingers flex at her waist, a soft frown creasing his brow. “Claire, I-”

A deafening crash rings out near them, makes them leap apart, her heart shattering her ribs as it thuds in her chest. Claire shakes her head and hears the yelling, hears the footsteps rushing towards them.

“There you two fucking are!” Delany yells as he spots them. Molly and Andy are right behind him as they stride down the hall and into Brad’s office, carrying bottles of champagne and a few empty glasses between them. Claire can only blink. “This asshole found you then? He’d been looking for like twenty minutes when I told him where you’d gone.”

“What?” Claire asks with a frown too, straightening her hair before Molly shoves an empty glass into her hand. “What’s going on?”

“Rapo’s doing the toasts, and he’s so fucking wasted,” Molly grins. “It’s gonna be ah-maaze. You are _not_ missing this.”

“Adam’s drunk?” Claire asks, glancing at Brad over her shoulder as Molly drags her out by her spare hand.

“Oh no, Saffitz, he was drunk like an hour into the party,” Andy grins, following them out. “Rapo’s _wasted_.”

The last Claire sees of Brad that night is _there_, with her heart on the floor at his feet.

\---

It doesn’t get better. The fear that gripped her that night won’t go away, even as the warmth of his proximity and the smell of whiskey linger too.

When the kitchens shut down for a break after the holiday party, her buried in work, things drift. She doesn’t check her phone for texts or calls that don’t come. Claire adds his name to the pile of regrets that settle inside her: she doesn’t trust herself to make time for more by making it worse. Maybe he’s waiting for a _moment_, for her to take the strides and promises and make mad midnight dashes to New Jersey from Cape Cod over winter break just to declare herself and make herself into a fool for him.

(She’s his fool, still, always his)

Thing is, reality doesn’t work that way. The snow doesn’t fall over the holidays in Cape Cod. He doesn’t send the perfect gift and make sweeping declarations that bury all the anxiety and fear in her heart over fucking _them_ up. Claire’s with her family – her sisters and her nephew and her parents – and isn’t lonely. It’d be easier if she was, she thinks – that feeling has followed her all her life, even now, but she’s not lonely and still misses him. This chapter, this wild ride of pseudo-fame and fans and _Brad_ is so new and terrifying because it’s not her life.

Love just isn’t enough sometimes. Love _does_ have conditions and expectations and pain and loss and sadness too. Lust is easy, desire uncomplicated.

God, she misses _him_.

It’s a hole in her chest when she doesn’t wake up to a message from him, when she doesn’t see that smile or hear his voice just saying her name and laughing over stupid stuff. Claire misses Brad just being Brad – it’s a couple of weeks and it’s already too much space to bear. The guilt over her leaving him the first time hasn’t been forgotten – she lasted a single day before realising she just _couldn’t_. He’s got a life of his own too, a chaotic, crazy mess of a life that sends him to city after city, hotel to hotel. It couldn’t work.

(Claire passes a packet of pink Sno Balls in the grocery store and her eyes burn)

But she loves him. Oh, how she loves him.

\---

Brad cannot catch a break from Claire fucking Saffitz.

Another hotel room, this time in Portland, one more night away from the mess they’ve made of things. He’s going home tomorrow, back to JFK and then to New Jersey, back to the kitchen, back to try a go at normality and the hope she doesn’t hate him. Bag’s packed and everything – Brad had even managed to shove all the bad shit in his head back down and get excited about being in Portland, about projects him and Matty have been talking about for months for his next trip to LA in a week. It’s not fine, but he’s good. He’s okay with space. He’s okay letting that moment in his office dangle in the air like a fucking baited hook; he’s fine with pretending he doesn’t _want_.

(_There’s no ‘only’ you_)

She’s still there, though, no matter how hard he tries to stamp her down, forget about the way she’d looked so terrified and turned on all at once, her ass perched against his desk. Brad can’t fucking escape from Claire Saffitz and her wide doe eyes, her giggles and breakdowns. Whatever he was to her, he knows it can’t end like _that_. He won’t let this mean nothing, because it doesn’t mean nothing to him.

(_There’s no ‘only’ you_)

He watches her on TV, on the fucking Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon, talking about work and her book and sees her ignore the chaos. And she’s perfect. Funny, warm, engaging, and beautiful – he laughs, he longs, he loves. Brad can hear that sass in her voice, misses her bright beaming smile and the way she can judge your shitty cake decorating from ten paces. A rough hand scrubs down his tired face, exhausted by the wait.

(_There’s no ‘only’ you_)

This is _his _Claire. She’s not like him, not scared of a spotlight on her, just accomplished, unashamedly skilled, perfectionist Claire. There’s things Brad won’t ever forget about her as long as he lives: the green dress, the taste of bitter chocolate and salted caramel, the look in her face when she knows she’s done something amazing, all shock and excitement. That’s _his _Claire.

Problem is though, he’s not sure if he wants to find out what “_there’s no ‘only’ you”_ means. The words ring in his ear, tainted by alcohol and need and loneliness, hollow and echoing.

(She left once before)

He won’t survive on scraps now.

\---

There’s only one person she knows who doesn’t call or text her about Fallon within five minutes of her segment airing. And it’s not that Claire expects a pat on the back, or to hear him say she _nailed it_, but she has to make sure the absence doesn’t hurt. Brad’s in Portland, or was, and she gets it. It’s stupid to be waiting for a moment that won’t come. Claire’s proud of herself for not making a mess of something as big as TV – her grandmother even watched it, for God’s sake. That’s _huge._

Claire doesn’t let herself think about Brad. She’s allowed to be proud, with or without him.

(_She’s stupid, so stupid_)

It’s stupid to be waiting for comments or likes on her social media when Brad hasn’t done either for weeks, it’s stupid to be disappointed that he doesn’t _care_. The absence hurts.

The rain in New York feels different than it used to; her calls and messages about Fallon have finally died down, and maybe – just maybe – she’s forgetting the mess she can’t talk to anyone else about.

Then her phone rings. She stares at his name on the screen.

“_Hey Claire,_” Brad says simply as she answers.

“Hi,” she replies, a little wary as she sits up on her couch. She’s not great at this part, but the familiar cracks in her heart shine through and she knows. “You called.”

“_I called, yeah, I called_,” he sounds rough; the cracks widen. “_Shoulda done it sooner, but uh… I ain’t ever been good at this kinda shit, y’know? Yeah you know, course you know._”

“Look, I’m sorry, I-”

She hears his breath stutter, like he’s drawing out the pain in smaller doses. “_I saw your thing on Fallon… fuckin’ amazing. You don’t need me to tell you that. But yeah. Got my ass beat out, that’s for damn sure.”_

“Thanks.” Tears sting her eyes as she screws them shut; something pierces her chest and she can’t breathe for thinking of him. “You home?”

“_Yeah, almost. I just had to stop at work, pick up something Gaby was savin’ for me. Gotta love Gaby, didn’t even frickin’ ask why, just did it._”

Claire wipes her cheeks as the tears spill silently down her face, happy he can’t see her cry. Brad hates when she cries because he’s Brad and he feels that pain as if it were his own.

“Gaby’s the best,” Claire says on a smile, curling her arm around her legs on the couch. It’s like when she was scared of those summer storms as a kid by the Cape, making herself small as she could so nothing could touch her if it came crashing through the roof. But now she’s 33 years old, and the storm seems a million miles away. “Brad, can… can’t we just go back to easy, just… just forget? I’m not… I can’t-”

“_No, Claire, can’t go back. I gotta – fuck – can’t go back to those phone calls now. One shot, one kill, right? Sorry to do this tonight, but I need-I need to know. It’s been eatin’ me alive, like I’m fuckin’ suffocating._”

“Please-”

“_What did you mean?_” Brad asks before she can make herself more of a fool for him. “_You said_ _‘there’s no only you’, what does that mean?_”

(_Stupid, so stupid_)

Claire licks her lips and tastes the salt of her tears, bitter on her tongue. “How can you not know? You, _you_ of all people, how can you not know?” It comes out so much more accusing than she means; her stomach drops as she hears him grunt, hears his soft sighs, swears under his breath. She’s suffocating too.

Her eyes dart to the entranceway of her apartment as she hears paper rustling: there on the floor, shoved under the crack of her front door is a plain, brown envelope. She frowns and sighs, getting up and padding barefoot towards her door, sure that her landlord is gonna be upping her rent or her neighbours wanna complain about the cats _again_. It’d be a cherry on top of the sundae.

It’s nondescript, the envelope – unmarked, sealed. She picks it up, hearing him still there on the other end of the phone waiting for an answer.

“_Open that envelope for me, would ya?_” Brad asks suddenly. Claire stands still, her head snapping towards the door. “_You need to see it_.”

“Brad…” she says. There’s a shadow moving outside her door and – fuck – it hits her like a freight train. God, he’s _there_. He’s standing outside her apartment, waiting, waiting, waiting.

“_It’s uh… maybe it’s fuckin’ stupid, I don’t know, but Gaby had the desk replaced and – shit, just open it._” He says quietly.

Inside the envelope, stuck to a random piece of cardboard, is a stripe of old green masking tape, worn at the edges. Claire blinks at the sight: he _saved _it, more than for all those months and weeks. He saved it from the desk being replaced. Because it means something – it has to.

(_BRAD. CALL ME!_)

"This is what you picked up from Gaby?" Claire says into the phone, holding the masking tape in her fingers. She’d written it so fucking long ago, in a desperate fit of happiness at being given freedom, at coming _home_.

"_Yeah, couldn't fuckin' let it go, and got me thinking... I know you're scared. Shit, I'm scared too, it's like I'm sticking in like… one place, one speed, and I ain't like that, Claire, so... fuck it – I love you. More'n I should, probably and I know that you know that. You wanna forget about what we were, I'll fuckin' try, I’ll do what I gotta. But I can't go back to easy, we can’t go back to the fuckin’ phone calls and flirting and putting our lives on hold for each other, for what could be something amazing._"

(Claire looks longingly at the front door, her fingers folding over the cardboard in her hand)

“_You don’t gotta say a word, cos I don’t think I wanna hear it coming from ya. Just… just open the door, and we can give this a shot. You don’t, we’ll forget it. Shit-_” he sniffles into her ear as she’s frozen on the spot. “_Just… I wanna be scared together, Claire. Everything’s always better with you._”

His end of the line goes dead. It’s a simple choice.

The phone is still to her ear when she opens the door.

Brad’s there, both broad hands up in surrender gripping her doorframe and it’s only when he looks up at her that she sees the relief flood through him: his body changes in an instant, looks at her like a man dying of thirst looks at a glass of water. He strides forwards, cups her head in those warm hands and kisses her deep and sweet and soft as her phone and the cardboard drop the floor at her feet (she doesn’t care about cracks). His hands slide to her back, they crush her to him, they make the world melt and she wonders why she hasn’t been doing this for years.

And, God, how she melts against him; her arms loop over his shoulders and knock his hat from his head to grip his curls better, her heart thudding against his chest. His lips are dry, her cheeks wet and pink from heat and it’s imperfect. But – fuck – she wants to give him everything. Claire pushes her fear behind the open door as Brad kicks it closed.

“Hi,” Claire grins against his lips, her voice soft and deep. “Wow.”

“Fucking bet your ass, wow,” Brad beams too before his lips land on her forehead. “Jesus, you scared me for a moment there.”

Laughter bubbles up and he kisses it back away. She can feel the heat of his hands pressing through her pyjamas. Claire feels tiny in his arms, breakable but strong.

“Me too,” she sighs against him, closing her eyes. He can’t seem to stop trailing kisses down her temple to the line of her jaw. The scratch of his beard makes her shiver and her fingers slink under his heavy jacket, desperate to feel more of him. “Brad-”

“I know, babe,” he mutters against her skin as his jacket thuds onto her floor. His palms land on her ass, gripping possessively, indelicately. He jolts through her system, remembering all the promises he’s made in the past. “_Mine_.”

“Oh fuck…” Her head is dizzy as he pulls her hips flush against him, his kisses hot and dirty, fingers groping at her flesh with the desperation she’s felt underneath the surface of her own skin since that first night. “_Brad_…”

“Shh,” he mutters as she scrunches up the collar of his t-shirt in her fists, all lust and love and hope. “I got ya, Claire, just trust me.”

He reaches down and hooks a thick, strong arm under her thighs, lifting her as she grips his shoulders. “What are you doing?!” Claire yelps, dissolving into giggles as he huffs and carries her across her apartment. “You’re gonna hurt your knee again.”

“Worth it!” Brad grins down at her, his eyes flickering across her face until her cheeks go red hot from the look in them. “Shit, you’re beautiful…”

The words sound reverent on his lips as he lowers her onto her unmade bed. Her greedy hands pull him towards her with insistence, patience worn already thin. In her head, this has happened a few hundred times in a few hundred different ways, but it’s never been like this. Brad kisses her – demanding, hungry, but hers, hers, hers – and the very core of her aches.

“Please, fuck,” she says breathlessly as his hands pull her clothed thighs apart, his teeth and tongue sucking red marks into her neck. Claire tugs desperately at his t-shirt until it comes off, dragging her nails down his back. He grunts and grips her thighs. “Not fair.”

“Not fair?” Brad repeats against her skin, smirking into her reddened flesh. “You got no fucking idea, Claire. Things I wanna do to you… shit, fuck…. all I think about is you.”

Her mouth falls open as he presses his palm between her legs, and she wonders if he can feel how wet she is from over her clothes, if the heat and need pour out of her.

Brad’s head ducks to press sloppy, open mouthed kisses to her belly, to shove her shirt up until he can get at her tits, raking his eyes over her as her top gets thrown over the side of the bed. One hand isn’t gentle as it kneads her breast, his mouth sucking her other nipple until she’s mewling, her legs wrapped around his waist, desperate for friction, for him to make her come.

“_Fuck!_” she cries out as his thigh rocks between hers, and all she can do is take it. He’s so fucking big, strong and she trusts him not to treat her like a doll, to make her feel that every part of him is taking her apart and putting her back together. “God, please, need you…”

His curled hair has turned wild from her fingers, his tongue lathing at the sweat between her marked breasts. “Beg me,” Brad mutters, peeling back her sweatpants and underwear in one go. “Gonna make you beg me.”

Broad hands grip her hips, his mouth licking a stripe down her soaked core. Claire clutches at the bedsheets and her eyes snap open. He’s unrelenting, gripping her flesh until she bruises. Her back arches as he sucks on her clit and sinks two thick, rough fingers inside her.

He drinks her in as she babbles his name, shuddering, gasping as he teases, building her to a fucking knife’s edge before stopping dead. There’s the smirk back against her skin and it’s everything he promised it’d be – all the things he’s talked to her about wanting, all the dark desire in them both laid bare.

“Slow down… oh shit… oh fuck, I’m gonna come…” she babbles as he eats her wet cunt.

“Say it,” Brad grins against her as he stops again, panting, hot breath stinging her swollen, soaked folds. “Come on, Claire, you wanna come, you gotta ask _nice_.”

His fingers crook inside her, a rough thumb on her clit and she sobs, sobs, sobs. “_Please, _Brad, need you…”

“Good girl,” he groans, ducking his head. His fingers move inside her, lips suck on her clit. There’s a burn of his stubble on her tender skin, his eyes aflame when she looks down into them.

With a piercing cry, Claire comes hard on his hand and his mouth, shuddering, gasping as the white-hot heat sears through her. He doesn’t stop – presses his soaked fingers to her mouth for her to suck clean, to drink every drop as he watches her face: she tastes of salt and nothingness, but it’s worth it for the flare of desire in his eyes. Her greedy tongue licks his hand clean before she collapses to the bed.

Brad runs the hand down her, groping idly at her breasts before covering his half-clothed body with hers, kissing deep into her mouth. “Fuckin’ gorgeous, taste so good,” he mutters as she loops her arms around his bare shoulders. Brad could crush her, she knows, he could pin her down and take, take, take but he _gives_ instead. “Claire…”

“I love you,” she says quickly, breathlessly into his mouth. It needs no reply. “I love you.”

Together, they get rid of the last of his clothes and – fuck – she’s seen him naked now, but she had no idea just how big he was. His cock is hard and thick, and she can just about get her palm around him to make him groan and thrust into her hand, work him up and kiss his neck, as she runs her mouth off about him.

(So much time now: she cries for the lost hours)

“Fuck, _Claire,_” Brad groans filthy into her ear as she jerks him. She’s soaked and swollen again just from this, from him swearing into her lips, from her rubbing the ache away on his thigh as he sucks on her tits, buries his face in her hair.

“Fuck me,” she whispers as he tugs her hand away, spreads her thighs. “Need your cock inside me, need you…”

Those sharp blue eyes flare dark and bright at the same time. “Shit, fuck, babe,” he groans, lining up and sinking into her body slowly, slowly, slowly.

Claire whimpers and clutches at his back, one hand gripping his hip as he enters her. Her eyes lock with his as he settles into her body, his forehead pressing tight to hers, eyes flicking down to where he’s seated deep into her. God, he’s splitting her apart. It burns so good, stretches and she’s so fucking _full_, complete, whole, his.

“_Mine_,” she mutters as he pulls out and thrusts back deep into her. He’s shaking from holding back, she can tell, his arms shuddering from the strength. But he’s too gentle, too slow, she wants him all at once, for him to make her feel it for days. “I can take it, I can take it,” she says breathlessly as he moves inside her. “_Fuck me_.”

“Shit…” Brad looks into her eyes, her thick legs around his waist and he gives in. One hand grips the railing of her headboard as he fucks her hard and deep. His eyes are wild, the sounds of sex filling the room as he pounds her harder and harder. Her body ripples with every sweaty thrust, and all Claire can do is take him.

Her head tilts back as he threads his fingers through her hair and tugs sharply.

“Fuck, fuck, so fucking wet for me,” he groans into her neck, speeding up and pounding her into the mattress. “Gonna have you wet every damn day, Claire, stuff you full every fuckin’ night. Shit, shit, shit,” he gasps as she tightens around him, her hands gripping his arms until her nails sink into his flesh. “You love it, don’t ya? Shit, fuck, tight little cunt all mine.”

“_Yes_, yes, yes, yes_! _Come inside me, please_!_”

She’s drowning deep, can only take and feel as he fucks her hard and mercilessly. Sounds of pleads and babbled gasps and moans escape her lips. Her flesh ripples as his hips thrust forward and – God – she’s coming, coming hard enough that her body feels like it’s breaking. Her voice shatters, Claire screams his name as he fucks her, unrelenting as his hips stutter.

“Shit, shit, fuck,” Brad says, gritting his teeth as she comes again. He doesn’t stop; he fucks her harder until he groans and pulses deep inside her, filling her like she wants as he comes. She’s his – branded, marked, owned – and she’ll take it all with his love in exchange. “Love you, love you so much.”

Claire pants hard as he loosens his grip, placing kisses on her hickeys before he claims her lips once more. She’s exhausted, soreness creeping in at the edges, sticky and sweaty but he’s with her. Nothing even comes close to how she feels.

Kisses rain across her temple as he slips to her side, immediately pulling her back on top, in those arms again. Her fingers stroke the scratches she made on his skin, her own branding. They’re not tender, not always, but they’re real and he loves her, he loves her enough for her to take a risk on everything. Claire’s not a gambler, but she’ll take a gamble on him.

She doesn’t want him to move; they stay like that, his body pressed against hers, sticky and sweaty until she feels the soreness seep in past the last of the pleasure between her legs.

“Hey, Brad?” Claire mutters quietly, pressing lazy kisses to his chest, her fingertips running over the hickey on his neck.

“Yeah?” he asks lazily, his own hands soothing the bruises on her hips.

“Andy and Molly aren’t gonna shut up about this, are they?”

Brad laughs and it shakes her body, Claire’s face splitting into a giant grin into his broad chest. “Not a chance in Hell, Half-Sour, not a fuckin’ chance.”

\---

Here’s the thing: love is deep, love’s dirty – it makes mistakes and begs forgiveness, it screams and cries and hurts, but it’s worth the risk for him. They drown in each other, gladly wading into the depths with each other’s hearts in their hands.

\---

The smell of coffee hits her the next morning as he sets the mug down by the bed, rousing her from the last vestiges of her dreams.

Chemex, milky, cool enough to drink down before the next cup gets too cold because Claire _always_ needs a second cup.

(It’s the little things)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any ideas or requests for Brad and Claire, please don't hesitate to hit me up on my [Tumblr page](https://queenofthecon.tumblr.com/) or in the discord if you're there.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorrynotsorry.
> 
> Don't know what green tape I'm talking about? [Where the fuck have you been?](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/648956146786238517/666418726530187299/image0.jpg).


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